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LISHEEN 

OR,  THE  TEST  OF  THE  SPIRITS 


L  I  S  H  E  E  S 

OR,  THE  TEST  OF  THE  SPIRITS 

BY 

THE    VERY 
P.    A.     SH] 

REV. 

CANON 

EEHAN, 

D. 

D., 

Author 

of 

"My 

New   Curate";  ' 

Luke 

Delmege 

"; 

"  Glenanaar 

";  etc. 

LONGMANS,    GREEN,    AND    CO, 

91    AND    93    FIFTH    AVENUE,   NEW    YORK 

LONDON,   BOMBAY,   AND   CALCUTTA 

1907 


Copyright,  1906,  by 
LONGMANS,  GREEN,  AND  CO. 

Copyright,  1907,  by 
LONGMANS,  GREEN,  AND  CO. 


All  rights  reserved 


The  Plimpton  Press  Norwood  Mass.  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 


PART  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Caragh  Lake 3 

II.  NONCONFORillSTS 1 5 

III.  A  Talisman 25 

IV.  A  Tolstoi  Debate 37 

V.  A  New  Hand 51 

VI.  "In  the  Sweat  of  Thy  Brow" 63 

VII.  Immemor  Sui 74 

VIII.  Broken  Cords 86 

IX.  Called  Back 96 

X.  In  the  Depths 106 

XI.  On  the  Summits 117 

PART  II 

XII.  Cynic  and  Humanist 129 

XIII.  A  New  Saint 143 

XIV.  Not  Forgotten 154 

XV.  A  Sick  Call 167 

XVI.  An  Indian  Letter 177 

XVII.  Visitors  at  Lisheen 182 

XVIII.  Testing  for  Gold 191 

XIX.  A  Letter  from  Ireland 201 

XX.  Poor  Reynard 206 

XXI.  Brandon  Hall 218 

XXII.  A  Terrible  Discovery 225 

XXIII.  Homeless 236 


vi  CONTENTS 
PART  III 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIV.    Before  the  Footlights 247 

XXV.    The  New  Overseer 262 

XXVI.    Depositions .  274 

XXVII.    The  Porphyry  Vase 288 

XXVIII.    Father  Cosgrove's  Dilemma 299 

XXIX.    Shakespearean  Recitals 310 

XXX.    A  Leper 325 

XXXI.    Great  Preparations 340 

XXXII.    A  Baptism  of  Tears 359 

XXXIII.  Lisheen 369 

XXXIV.  A  Double  Wedding 381 

XXXV.    The  Roman  Way 393 

XXXVI.    Nemesis 404 

XXXVII.    An  Unsolved  Mystery 418 

XXXVIII.    "Quasi  per  Ignem" 430 

XXXIX.    "One  of  Us?" 442 


PART   I 


LISHEEN 


CHAPTER  I 

CARAGH  LAKE 

CERTAIN  travellers  and  artists  have  said  that  Car- 
agh  Lake  is  even  more  beautiful  than  Killarney. 
But  let  that  pass.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  this  lovely 
and  tranquil  evening  in  the  late  summer  of  189 — ,  when 
the  sun  had  gone  down  behind  yonder  hill,  and  left  all 
the  sky  crimson,  and  when  the  crimson  had  faded  into 
pink  as  reflected  in  the  lake,  and  all  the  shadowed  places 
were  dark  and  tranquil  mirrors  of  tree  and  shrub,  the 
whole  was  a  picture  of  peace,  such'  as  weary  men  long 
for  in  troubled  dreams,  and  tire  of  so  quickly  when  the 
dream  becomes  a  reality.  And  the  beauty  was  not 
marred,  nay,  it  was  emphasized  by  the  dark  blot  of  one 
shallow  boat  that  just  now  lay  very  still  and  close  to  the 
shore.  It  had  one  occupant,  a  young  man  —  that  is,  if 
one  of  thirty  can  be  still  considered  young  in  these  hot 
days  when  the  hair  blanches  so  quickly,  and  the  wrinkles 
around  the  mouth  gather  so  silently;  but  he  looked  young, 
and  the  crimson  glow  from  the  clouds  seemed  to  add 
something  to  his  youthful  and  calm  appearance.  His 
occupations,  too,  just  now  spoke  of  a  stillness  that  seemed 
the  external  symbolism  of  his  mind;  for  he  was  watching 
in  some  unconscious  way  a  salmon-rod  that  stretched  out 

3 


4  LISHEEN 

beyond  the  boat,  and  was  mirrored  in  a  long  dark  line 
on  the  water.  He  was,  again  unconsciously,  smoking 
tiny  cigarettes,  which  he  rolled  up  between  his  fingers, 
lighted,  and  flung  away  in  some  mechanical  manner;  and 
he  was,  again  unconsciously,  reading  from  a  tiny  volume 
on  his  knees  —  a  little  book  of  three  or  four  Russian 
dramas,  the  first  of  which  was  called  The  Power  of  Dark- 
ness. The  first  two  dreamy  occupations  were  compara- 
tively harmless.  The  latter  was  perilous.  For,  certainly, 
of  all  dangerous  amusements  of  the  present  day,  that  of 
reading  is  the  most  dangerous.  If  all  the  graduates  who 
passed  through  Trinity  College  during  the  last  fifty  years 
had  followed  Bob  Maxwell's  example,  this  Ireland  of  ours 
would  long  ago  have  been  a  Republic.  For  great  power 
streams  out  from  those  iron  gates  that  open  on  College 
Green,  only  it  divides  itself,  just  at  its  embouchure  into 
the  outer  world,  into  three  sections  —  that  of  those  who 
read  professionally  their  Anatomies  or  Law  Digests,  and 
pass  into  snug  sinecures  and  become  naturally  and,  there- 
fore, stubbornly  strenuous  supporters  of  the  "things  that 
are";  that  of  those  who  sweep  through  the  world,  sowing 
their  wild  oats  everywhere,  and  then  settle  do'wn  into 
landed  sinecures,  and  become  strenuous  supporters  of 
the  "things  that  are";  and  that  of  those  who,  unattached 
to  land  or  profession,  give  themselves  up  to  thinking  and 
study.  These  are  the  dangerous  class  —  the  supporters 
of  things  as  "they  ought  to  be."  For  if  you  leave  college 
with  the  knowledge  that  a  certain  goddess  was  "pulchra 
adspectuque  delectabilis " ;  or  that  a  ram  goes  by  the 
classical  title  of  "magister  gregis";  or  if  you  are  a  mus- 
cular Christian,  what  a  profane  modern  writer  would  call 


CARAGH  LAKE  5 

a  "flannelled  oaf," — it  makes  not  much  difference  in  the 
economies  of  life.  Or,  if  you  know  that  England  governs 
Ireland  by  "a  whip  and  a  sop,"  and  that  if  you  bend 
beneath  the  former  and  swallow  the  latter,  you  may 
become  a  Bencher  and  a  K.C.B., —  this,  too,  makes  little 
difference.  But  if  you  begin  to  read,  first  for  amusement ; 
then  to  be  in  "the  swim  of  things,  you  know";  then  to  be 
hurried  along  the  stream  of  modern  thought  and  tenden- 
cies, and  to  become  a  dreamer  of  dawns  and  sunsets,  and 
vast  vistas  that  open  up  an  imaginary  New  Heaven  and 
New  Earth  to  the  masses  who  groan  under  the  weight  of 
the  "things  that  are" — ah,  then,  you  become  dangerous 
and  possibly  declasse,  if  you  are  not  wise  enough  to  keep 
the  new  wine  from  breaking  through  the  skins  of  speech. 
To  this  dangerous  class  Bob  Maxwell  was  dangerously 
approximating.  He  had  begun  to  be  troubled,  not  about 
a  wife,  although  that  interesting  subject  did  occupy  a 
share  of  his  thoughts;  not  about  his  health,  although  it 
was  chiefly  for  health's  sake  he  was  down  here  in  the 
Kerry  mountains,  camping  out  under  that  white  bell-tent 
that  seems  like  a  mere  tiny  convolvulus  up  there  in  that 
lovely  valley  where  the  fir  trees  are ;  but  about,  oh,  shades 
of  Trinity,  his  place  in  the  universe,  his  work  in  this 
weird  world,  where  he  had  only  begun  to  wake  up  and 
find  his  existence.  Now  when  a  young  man  begins  to 
ask  the  fatal  question,  what  he  has  to  do  on  this  planet 
during  the  tiny  span  of  life  allotted  to  mortals,  it  is  all  up 
with  him.  For,  either  he  pursues  the  question  to  its 
logical  issue,  and  then  he  becomes  an  Ishmaelitc  to  his 
class;  or  he  sets  it  aside  as  an  impertinence,  and  then  he 
is  haunted  during  his  life  with  some  awful  consciousness 


6  LISHEEN 

of  failure,  some  ever-gnawing  remembrance  that  he  was 
called  to  the  higher  life,  and  preferred  to  grovel  in  the 
"sty  of  Epicurus." 

Therefore,  Bob  Maxwell  was  troubled,  and  that  little 
drama  of  Russian  life  did  not  smooth  matters  for  him. 
It  told  of  a  peasantry  sunk  in  all  kinds  of  ignorance  and 
superstition  and  vice;  of  millions  on  millions  of  human 
beings  steeped  to  the  lips  in  everything  that  could  be 
physically  and  morally  degrading;  of  a  dense,  brutal  type 
of  humanity,  through  which  there  gleam  possibilities  of 
nobleness  that  might  satisfy  the  aspirations  of  the  most 
ambitious  dreamer  of  a  risen  and  exalted  humanity. 
The  dreadful  and  poignant  remorse  that  seizes  the  chief 
actor  in  this  powerful  drama,  his  magnificent  exculpation 
of  others,  and  self-condemnation,  reveal  depths  of  con- 
science and  feeling  that  are  generally  unassociated  with  a 
criminal  of  such  magnitude;  and  the  author  clearly  wants 
to  prove  that,  deep  down  beneath  the  stagnant  and 
squalid  surface  of  peasant  life  in  Russia,  there  are  hidden 
springs  of  nobility,  that  only  need  a  strong  hand  to  spread 
abroad  and  sweeten  all  the  land. 

"He  knows  it,"  soliloquized  Bob  Maxwell,  as  he  held 
the  book  open  in  his  fingers  there  in  the  waning  twilight. 
"This  man  —  count,  too,  and  nobleman  —  had  the 
courage  to  go  down  into  the  depths,  and  see  things  for 
himself;  and  then  the  greater  courage  of  telling  his  country- 
men what  he  thought  of  them.  Yes,  the  grave  clothes 
must  be  unloosed  and  the  face  cloth  unfolded  before  a 
Christ  can  say:  'Arise  and  come  forth!'" 

There  was  a  sudden  tug  on  the  rod  that  he  had  drawn 
beneath  his  knees;  and,   in  an  instant,   the  instinct  of 


CARAGH  LAKE  7 

sport  banished  every  other  thought  and  sentiment.  He 
tossed  the  book  aside,  and  it  fell  into  the  water.  He  gave 
it  one  thought  only:  "What  will  Mabel  think  of  her 
pretty  book?"  and  then  he  centred  all  his  energies  towards 
one  supreme  effort. 

"A  big  fellow,"  he  thought,  as  he  allowed  the  line  to 
reel  out,  whilst  he  kept  a  firm  finger  on  the  wheel,  and 
held  his  rod  deep  down  on  a  level  with  the  lake.  "It 
will  take  all  my  time  and  strength  to  land  him." 

For  the  boat  now  was  being  swiftly  towed  along  the 
shore  by  the  captive  fish,  which  struggled  gallantly  for 
life,  and  tore  along  the  water  to  get  away  from  the  invisible 
enemy. 

Bob  Maxwell  contrived  to  lift  from  his  watch  chain  a 
small  boatswain's  whistle,  and  to  ring  out  its  clear  notes, 
whilst  he  held  a  strong  hand  on  the  rod. 

"If  only  I  had  some  one  now,"  he  thought,  "to  pull 
back,  I'd  soon  exhaust  the  fellow.  Or,  if  he  keeps  backing 
into  the  shallows  — " 

A  queer  figure  appeared  on  the  lake  shore.  A  long, 
lank  body  was  crowned  with  a  shock  of  red  hair  that  had 
never  touched  comb  or  brush.  The  red,  hard  flesh  of  the 
chest  was  clearly  visible  through  the  edges  of  the  shirt 
that  opened  out  into  a  V-like  shape;  and  the  bare  legs 
were  encased  in  a  corduroy  breeches,  that  was  slit  by  the 
scissors  of  time,  until  it  hung  down  in  ribbons  to  the  feet. 

"  Hould  hard,  yer  'anner !  Hould  hard.  Master  Bob,"  he 
gasped,  as  he  ran  along  the  lake  shore,  now  stumbling  over 
a  boulder,  now  tripped  up  by  a  furze  branch  hidden  in 
bracken,  but  wildly  gesticulating  and  crying  aloud  in  his 
excitement:  "Hould  hard,  an'  you'll  get  him  in  the  shalla 


8  LISHEEN 

water!    Hould  hard,  yer  'anner!     Oh!  he's  the  divil  of  a 
fellow  intirely!     Pull,  pull,  yer  'anner!    There!" 

''Have  you  the  gaff,  you  fool?"  gasped  Bob  Maxwell  in 
return,  as  he  tried  to  steady  the  boat  and  call  in  the  line. 
The  boy  did  not  answer,  but  fled  up  the  hill;  and  in  an 
instant  the  strain  on  the  line  slackened,  and  Bob  thought 
the  salmon  had  escaped,  when  he  felt  the  sudden  swish 
almost  beneath  the  boat,  and  the  rod  was  nearly  jerked 
from  his  hand,  as  the  line  drew  around  after  the  fish,  as 
it  tore  madly  through  the  water.  He  had  now  to  change 
his  tactics,  and  by  main  strength  keep  the  salmon  from 
rushing  into  deep  water,  as  the  boat  swiftly  slewed  around 
under  the  strain.  Again  the  young  man  drew  in  the  line 
slowly,  and  again  let  it  go,  as  the  salmon,  maddened  with 
pain  and  fright,  rushed  back  to  the  shallows,  until,  after 
a  long  struggle,  exhausted  with  pain  and  fatigue,  it  crept 
slowly  into  the  mud  and  shingle,  and  hid  there  panting 
with  flapping  fins  and  quivering  tail.  Once  more  Bob 
Maxwell  drew  out  the  whistle  and  sent  peal  after  peal 
through  the  hills.  He  heard  a  far-off  shout,  and  guessed 
it  was  the  bare-legged  boy  who,  regardless  of  his  neck, 
was  leaping  down  the  steep  declivity.  In  a  few  minutes 
the  boy  was  up  to  his  knees  in  the  water,  wading  towards 
the  boat.  Bob  Maxwell  held  up  a  warning  hand,  and 
drew  his  line  right  up  to  the  top  of  the  rod,  where  the 
fish  hung  limp  and  quivering.  In  a  moment,  the  keen 
point  of  the  gaff  was  in  the  salmon's  gills,  and  the  boy, 
with  savage  delight,  held  him,  whilst  his  master  loosed 
the  hook.  Then,  with  a  wild  shout  that  came  back  in 
savage  echoes  from  the  hills,  he  drew  up  the  dying  fish 
and  flung  gaff  and  salmon  into  the  boat. 


CARAGH  LAKE  9 

"T'was   a   tight   shave,    d you!"    said   Maxwell. 

"What  did  I  tell  you  —  never  to  take  that  gaff  home? 
Didn't  I?" 

''You  did,  yer  'anner,  but — " 

"There  —  no  buts  —  you  have  the  lie  always  ready  to 
your  lips.  Here,  jump  in,  and  take  the  oars.  That 
brute  has  almost  pulled  my  arm  out  of  its  sockets." 

The  boy  clambered  over  the  side  of  the  boat,  and  sat 
on  the  thwarts,  drawing  the  two  oars  through  the  rowlocks 
silently,  whilst  his  wet  garments  soon  made  a  pool  of 
water  beneath  his  feet. 

"Well,  by  Jove!"  said  Maxwell,  looking  admiringly  at 
the  silver  fish  as  he  lay,  gasping  faintly  through  the  gills, 
and  at  long  intervals  lashing  feebly  with  his  tail,  "he  is  a 
beauty.  What  will  Queen  Mab  and  the  Major  say? 
But  you  are  all  wet,"  he  suddenly  cried,  as  he  watched 
the  red,  wet  knees  of  the  boy,  and  the  long  streamers  of 
the  torn  corduroy  dripping  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

The  boy  grinned,  and  almost  blushed.  He  was  unused 
to  commiseration,  and  it  rather  disconcerted  him. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Maxwell,  salving  his  own  con- 
science, as  they  neared  the  pier,  "pull  straight  in,  and  I'll 
hold  her  nose  all  right.  There,  that's  good!  Ease  her 
now.     Back  her  a  httle." 

He  jumped  lightly  from  the  boat,  and  keeping  his  rod 
untackled,  he  bade  the  boy  follow  him  with  the  salmon 
and  gaff  to  the  hotel. 

The  lights  were  twinkling  in  the  large  drawing-room 
and  dining-room  of  the  hotel.  It  was  the  hollow,  idle 
moment  in  hotel-life,  when  veranda  and  billiard-room 
and  drawing-room  are  deserted;  and  men  and  women 


lo  LISHEEN 

are  vesting  themselves  for  the  great  sacrificial  act  of  the 
day.  As  Maxwell  approached  the  house,  however,  he 
saw  two  figures  lingering  on  the  porch.  Mabel  Wil- 
loughby,  his  cousin,  was  one.  She  rose  and  came  towards 
him. 

"Look  here,  Mab,"  he  cried  with  enthusiasm,  "look  at 
this  fellow  that  I  hooked.  Come  here,  you  sir!  Lay 
down  the  fish!" 

The  boy  approached  and  laid  the  dead  fish  on  the  flags. 

"Isn't  he  a  beauty?     What  will  the  Major  say?" 

Mabel  looked  rather  coldly  on  the  salmon,  and  said, 
with  a  curious  chill  in  her  voice: 

"Where  is  Tolstoi?" 

"By  Jove,"  said  Maxwell,  crestfallen,  "I  never  thought 
—  this  fellow  tugged,  and  your  book  fell  into  the  water. 
I'll  fetch  it  the  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  replied,  "the  book  belonged  to  Mr. 
Outram.  It  can  hardly  be  replaced.  Father  is  in  the 
sitting-room." 

And  she  turned  away  to  her  companion. 

Thoroughly  chilled  and  dispirited,  Maxwell  took  up 
the  fish;  and,  after  a  few  minutes'  deliberation,  he  passed 
through  the  hotel  corridor  and  knocked  at  the  Major's  door. 

"Come  in!"  said  a  gruff  voice,  and  Maxwell  entered. 

The  Major  was  sunk  deep  in  a  soft  armchair,  one  leg 
swathed  in  flannel  resting  on  a  pillow.  He  must  have 
been  sleeping,  for  he  gave  a  sudden  start  as  Maxwell 
entered  the  room. 

"Look  here,  Major,  look  at  this  fellow!"  said  the 
young  man  enthusiastically,  expecting  appreciation  here. 
"Mabel  would  not  condescend  to  look  at  him." 


CARAGH  LAKE  ii 

The  Major  was  writhing  in  sudden  agony.  The  sur- 
prise and  the  start  had  suddenly  strained  the  swollen  foot 
and  it  was  now  in  raging  pain, 

"Yee-es";    said   the    Major,    "put   him   down   there! 

D you,  Bob,  why  did  you  disturb  me  ?     Oh-h !  Oh-h ! 

Bloody  wars!  Oh-h!  'Tis  a  fine  fellow!  How  did  you 
hook  him?     Oh,  bloody  wars!     Oh-h!    Leave  the  room 

at  once,  d you,  you  numskull  —  you  and  your  d 

fish.  Don't  look  that  way,  but  leave  the  room,  or  I'll 
strike  you !    Oh-h !    Send  me  Mabel,  and  tell  her  to  bring 

that  liniment  quick.     And  take  that  d fish  out  of  my 

sight.  The  fellow  stinks.  You  never  killed  him.  Go, 
and  be  d !     Oh,  bloody  wars!" 

Maxwell  took  up  the  unlucky  fish  silently,  and  went 
away. 

The  gruff  Major  called  after  him. 

"Come  back,  you  sir!  Come  back.  Bob,  I  say!  I 
didn't  mean  it !  You  know,  well' —  oh !  Bloody  wars ! 
Go  away,  and  be  d to  you!" 

"All  right,  sir!"  said  Bob,  looking  in.  "It  makes  no 
matter.    I'll  call  again,  when  you're  better.     Good  night!" 

He  passed  into  the  veranda  again.  Mabel  was  still 
there. 

"The  Major  wants  you,"  he  said  coldly,  "he  is  in  pain, 
and  he  bade  you  bring  the  liniment  for  his  foot!" 

And  without  another  word  he  passed  out  into  the 
darkening  night,  and,  followed  by  the  boy,  went  up 
along  the  white  dusky  road  that  passed  across  the  hill, 
beneath  which  was  hidden  the  deep,  ferny  valley  where 
his  white  tent  was  pegged  in  the  midst  of  gorse  and 
bracken.     His  lamps  had  been  lighted  by  his  faithful 


12  LISHEEN 

attendant  Aleck,  a  shrewd  Scotchman,  remarkable  for 
many  things,  but  most  of  all  for  his  habit  of  reticence. 
He  was  silent  as  a  statue,  nothing  could  disturb  his  equa- 
nimity; but  when  he  spoke  he  threw  out  words  that  bit 
and  stung;  and  he  enjoyed  so  much  the  confidence  of  his 
master,  that  the  latter  never  resented  the  freedom,  although 
sometimes  he  said  things  that  made  Maxwell  wince  and 
rage  in  silence.  The  pretty  bell-tent,  now  lighted  up, 
looked  bright  and  fresh  as  a  nightflower  down  there  in 
the  dewy  valley;  and  Maxwell  thought,  as  he  clambered 
down  the  rough  grass-path,  that,  compared  with  the  grand 
hotel,  down  there  near  the  lake,  with  all  its  artificiality,  its 
stuffy  bedrooms,  carpeted  corridors,  heavy  dinners,  and 
stiff  company,  he  had  the  best  of  it. 

"Here,  Aleck,"  he  cried,  as  he  gave  the  salmon  to  his 
servant,  "I  had  luck  this  evening.  Isn't  this  a  fine 
fellow?" 

Aleck  took  the  fish  in  silence. 

"We'll  have  salmon  cutlets  at  least  for  a  week!"  said 
Maxwell.     "Is  tea  ready?" 

The  silent  servitor  pointed  to  the  table  in  the  tent.  It 
was  a  pretty  picture.  The  little  round  table,  the  spotless 
cloth,  the  white  cup  and  saucer,  the  sliced  beef  and  ham, 
the  sprigs  of  fern  here  and  there,  the  bright  lamp,  the 
camp-bed  with  its  silk  coverlet,  the  white  canvas  that 
swayed  and  undulated  in  the  soft  air,  the  flapping  of  the 
canvas  beneath  where  the  winds  stole  in,  the  creaking  of 
the  ropes,  and  the  odour  of  a  hundred  country  scents,  of 
gorse  and  fern  and  wild  flowers,  and  the  cooler  air  that 
blew  up  from  the  lake,  made  the  whole  place  a  little  fairy 
home  of  freshness  and  sweetness  and  delight. 


CARAGH  LAKE  13 

Maxwell  sat  down  to  tea  with  a  hearty  relish.  The  air, 
the  exercise,  the  early  dinner,  all  combined  to  give  him  a 
healthy  appetite,  although  now  and  again  the  remembrance 
of  the  chill  reception  he  had  got  from  Mabel,  and  the 
rough  manner  of  her  father,  did  recur  with  a  certain 
poignancy  and  bitterness,  against  which  he  was  not  quite 
proof. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  he  had  experienced  the 
capriciousness  and  fickle  temper  of  his  cousin.  Her  aston- 
ishing beauty  hardly  compensated  for  her  wilful  and  most 
unjust  changes  of  temper  and  attitude  towards  him.  She 
played  with  his  feelings  in  a  manner  that  would  have 
revolted  a  stronger  man.  But  Maxwell  had  all  the  weak- 
ness and  long-suffering  disposition  of  those  who  are  made 
up  of  generous  principles  and  instincts.  Nobility  of  soul 
is  very  generally  accompanied  with  infirmity  of  will-power, 
because  it  is  too  generous  to  remember  or  resent.  Hence 
a  frantic  resolution  to  emancipate  himself  from  her  slavery 
forever  was  dissipated  by  a  look,  a  gesture,  a  half-spoken 
word  —  any  of  the  hundred  little  artifices  in  which  his 
cousin  was  such  a  proficient.  But  now,  unknown  to 
himself,  he  was  working  out  his  freedom.  That  strange 
sub-consciousness  that  operates  silently  beneath  the  con- 
sciousness that  works  through  deliberation  and  judgment 
was  working  outward  towards  a  new  line  of  thought, 
which  would  render  him  perfectly  insensible  to  his  cousin 
and  her  coquetries.  He  was  entering  on  a  new  realm  — 
a  kingdom  where  ideas,  not  the  senses,  had  dominion; 
and  where  great  thoughts,  like  wizards  and  enchantresses, 
would  woo  him  to  heights  perilous  enough  in  themselves 
and  only  to  be  trodden  by  firm  feet,  but  far  removed 


14  LISHEEN 

from  the  valleys  or  the  plains  where  the  voluptuary  is 
content  to  rest. 

He  bade  Aleck  remove  the  tea-things  and  refurnish  the 
lamp;  and  he  began  to  read,  and  read  far  into  the 
night. 


CHAPTER  II 


NONCONFORMISTS 


What  he  read  was  this.  That  all  the  great  work  of 
the  world  had  been  done  by  those  who,  discontented  with 
existing  things,  sought  to  break  through  the  crust  of 
custom  and  establish  a  new  order;  that  purely  human 
institutions  have  an  invincible  tendency  to  decay,  and  the 
sooner  that  decay  is  pushed  into  dissolution  the  better 
for  the  hope  and  prospect  of  creating  a  fresh  and  more 
vital  condition  of  things;  that  all  the  mighty  men  of  the 
race  were  nonconformists,  that  is,  they  refused  to  accept 
the  things  that  were,  and  pushed  on  to  the  things  that 
ought  to  be.  And  that  as  in  the  moral  order  the  ancient 
prophets  of  Judea  protested  against  their  own  surround- 
ings and  gave  their  lives  in  forfeit  for  that  protest;  and  as 
they  were  succeeded  by  reformer  after  reformer,  who 
perished  on  the  gibbet  for  an  idea;  so  in  the  order  of 
science  Aristotle  was  pushed  aside  by  Bacon,  Bacon  by 
Kant,  Newton  by  his  many  successors;  and  in  the  social 
order  all  the  generations  of  economists,  statesmen,  and 
philanthropists  seem  to  have  left  their  ideas  of  human 
social  happiness  concentrated  in  the  terrible  struggle  of 
Socialism  to  reconstruct  the  fabric  of  human  lives  and 
happiness,  or  in  the  efforts  of  some  solitary  dreamer  like 
Tolstoi  to  get  back  from  the  standard  fictions  of  civilization 
to  some  great  primeval   model  on  which  human  lives 

15 


1 6  LISHEEN 

might  be  fashioned.  This  brought  back  the  recollection 
of  the  lost  book. 

"Tolstoi,"  cried  Maxwell,  lowering  the  flame  of  the 
lamp,  "  a  man  of  men,  a  living  figure  amongst  clay  puppets, 
a  man  with  the  courage  of  his  convictions,  who  left  behind 
him  all  the  luxuries  and  comforts  of  his  home  and  went 
down  amongst  the  poor  and  became  one  of  themselves, 
to  study  their  lives  and  draw  them  up  to  higher  models 
and  larger  issues.     When  shall  we — ?" 

But  that  thought,  suddenly  interpreted  to  his  reason  by 
the  very  force  of  imagination,  presented  possibilities  that 
made  reason  shrink  from  even  contemplating  the  experi- 
ment. There  was  something  transcendental  and  poetical 
about  a  Russian  nobleman  stripping  himself  of  all  his 
habits  and  traditions,  and  going  down  amongst  the  squalid 
Russian  peasantry  to  study  their  lives,  with  the  idea  of 
transforming  and  raising  them.  But  for  an  Irish  landlord 
and  gentleman,  an  M.A,  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  to 
leave  his  own  ranks  and  go  down  amongst  the  Irish 
peasantry  to  study  the  economics  of  their  wretched  con- 
dition —  why,  that  is  unimaginable !     And  yet,  why  ? 

The  thought  became  so  troublesome,  and  that  Why? 
would  repeat  itself  with  such  damnable  iteration,  that  he 
took  up  the  book  again  to  distract  himself. 

This  is  what  he  read: 

"If  one  not  worn  and  wrinkled,  sadly  sage, 
But  joyous  in  the  glory  and  the  grace 
That  mix  with  evils  here,  and  free  to  choose 
Earth's  loveliest  at  his  will:  one  even  as  I 
Who  ache  not,  lack  not,  grieve  not,  save  with  griefs 
Which  are  not  mine,  except  as  I  am  man;  — 


NONCONFORMISTS  17 

If  such  a  one,  having  so  much  to  give, 

Gave  all,  laying  it  down  for  love  of  men. 

And  thenceforth  spent  himself  to  search  for  truth, 


Surely,  at  last,  far  off,  sometime,  somewhere, 
The  veil  would  lift  for  his  deep-searching  eyes, 
The  road  would  open  for  his  painful  feet, 
That  should  be  done  for  which  he  lost  the  world. 
This  will  I  do  who  have  a  realm  to  lose. 
Because  I  love  my  realm,  because  my  heart 
Beats  with  each  throb  of  all  the  hearts  that  ache. 
Known  and  unknown,  these  that  are  mine  and  those 
Which  shall  be  mine,  a  thousand  million  more 
Saved  by  this  sacrifice  I  offer  now." 

"All  the  same,  and  everywhere  the  same,"  cried  Max- 
well. "That  divine  ideal  of  losing  oneself  to  help  on  the 
common  cause  of  humanity  has  been  ever  haunting  the 
mind  of  man !  There  must  be  something  in  it,  some  echo 
of  a  far-off  divine  revelation,  once  articulately  spoken  by 
God  to  humanity,  but  stifled  under  the  'drums  and 
tramplings'  of  the  nations.  What  if  I,  I,  Bob  Maxwell, 
landlord  and  gentleman,  the  affianced  of  Queen  Mab, 
the  envied  of  my  own  class,  should  be  as  Sidartha,  as 
Tolstoi  —  should  break  all  the  traditions  of  my  class  and 
creed,  and  go  down  amongst  the  people  to  raise  them  up 
unto  a  new  consecration  of  life?" 

The  glory  of  the  idea  seemed  to  lift  him  above  himself, 
until  he  began  to  think  of  all  the  sacrifices  it  involved,  of 
all  that  it  meant  to  himself  and  those  dear  to  him.  Then 
his  heart  sank.  To  go  down  among  these  wretched 
peasantry  —  ignorant,  superstitious,  sunk  in  all  kinds  of 


l8  LISHEEN 

sordid  surroundings  —  to  wear  rough  clothes,  cat  plain 
food,  sleep  on  rugged  beds,  bear  winter  cold  and  summer 
heat  unprotected  by  suitable  raiment  —  above  all,  to 
associate  with  the  people,  whom  he  had  always  been 
taught  to  regard  as  serfs  and  worse  —  no;  it  was  clearly 
impossible!  These  things  were  for  heroes,  and  Bob 
Maxwell  could  not  bring  himself  to  believe  that  he  was 
of  heroic  mould.  Well,  he  would  be  at  least  compassionate 
and  courteous  in  his  conduct  in  future.  He  thought  with 
a  pang  of  conscience,  which  he  had  never  felt  before,  how 
he  had  treated  that  poor  boy,  who  did  his  menial  work 
at  a  merely  nominal  compensation.  He  remembered  the 
oaths  he  flung  at  him,  the  vile  names  he  called  him,  the 
contemptuous  manner  in  which  he  always  treated  him; 
and  the  patience,  the  equanimity,  the  long  suffering  of 
the  boy;  and  the  wistful  look  in  his  face  under  a  shower 
of  contumely,  as  of  a  hunted  beast  that  pleads  with  his 
eyes  for  some  mercy. 

"I'm  a  brute,"  said  Bob  Maxwell,  springing  up  and 
rushing  from  the  tent.     "Here,  Aleck!     Is  Darby  gone?" 

"An  hour  ago!"  said  Aleck,  who  was  smoking  outside 
the  tent. 

"The  poor  devil  was  wet.  He  paddled  through  the 
lake  for  me.     I  wish  I  had  given  him  a  drop  of  whisky!" 

"I  gied  it,"  said  Aleck. 

"Did  you?"  said  his  master.     "I'm  very  glad!" 

And  Aleck  was  much  surprised,  but  said  nothing. 

"Time  to  turn  in,  Aleck!"  said  Maxwell,  anxious  to 
originate  some  conversation  as  a  distraction  to  his  thoughts. 

"Time  enough!"  said  Aleck  sententiously. 

"When  does  the  moon  arise?"  asked  Max^well. 


NONCONFORMISTS  19 

"Between  eleven  and  twelve!"  said  his  man. 

Maxwell  returned  to  his  tent  and  to  his  thoughts.  He 
read  and  reflected,  reflected  and  read,  until  the  dawn 
wind  lifted  the  flap  of  his  tent.  Then  he  undressed,  and 
slept  on  till  the  morning  was  far  advanced,  and  the  moon 
was  but  a  cloudy  radiance  far  down  in  the  west. 

When  he  rose,  a  dainty  breakfast  of  salmon  cutlets, 
eggs,  tea,  and  toast  awaited  him.  There  were  no  letters, 
no  newspapers,  and  he  thanked  God  for  it.  Darby 
Leary  was  sitting  outside,  near  the  ditch,  his  hands 
propped  on  his  knees,  and  his  head  on  his  hands,  thinking, 
dreaming  in  a  kind  of  a  half-conscious  slumber.  Max- 
well looked  at  him  for  a  moment;  and  then  in  a  tone  of 
voice  that  startled  himself  by  its  novelty,  he  said: 

"Darby!" 

Darby  leaped  up,  as  a  dog  at  the  voice  of  his  master. 

"I  dropped  a  book  yesterday  in  the  lake;  and  you  must 
find  it  for  me.     Would  you  recognize  it?" 

"The  thing  you  had  wid  you  in  de  boat?"  asked  Darby. 

"Yes;  I  don't  mean  the  fishing-rod,  you  know!" 

Darby  grinned  acquiescence. 

"Well,  run  down  to  the  hotel  pier,  loose  the  boat,  and 
pull  round  to  where  we  gaffed  the  salmon,  and  wait  there 
for  me.  You  should  find  the  book  somewhere  along 
there!" 

Darby  chuckled  with  delight  at  the  idea.  To  be  alone 
in  the  boat,  even  for  an  hour  or  two,  was  heaven.  He 
ran  down  the  mountain  road,  his  bare  feet  throwing  up 
little  clouds  of  dust  as  he  went. 

Maxwell  turned  round,  and  asked  Aleck  the  way  to 
Darby's  cabin. 


20  LISHEEN 

"Ye  canna  help  seein'  it,"  said  Aleck,  "that  is,  if  ye 
ken  disteenguish  it  from  the  furze  and  bracken.  First 
house  to  the  left,  whin  ye  crass  the  burn  that  runs  doon  to 
the  loch!" 

And  Maxwell,  enjoying  the  lovely  morning,  the  fresh 
pure  air,  the  scents  of  the  mountain  herbs,  and  the  superb 
views  that  broke  around  him  at  every  turn  in  the  mountain 
road,  went  forward,  eager  to  know  a  little  of  these  strange 
people,  yet  shuddering  at  the  thought  of  coming  into 
closer  contact  with  them.  "If  one  could  raise  them,"  he 
thought,  "but  the  cost,  the  cost!" 

He  had  no  trouble  in  finding  the  wretched  cabin;  but  if 
he  had  been  told  that  it  was  a  pig- sty,  he  would  have 
readily  believed  it.  Four  mud-walls,  about  five  or  six 
feet  high,  pierced  by  a  window  not  quite  a  foot  square, 
and  a  door  so  low  one  had  to  bend  oneself  double  to  enter, 
supported  a  ragged  roof  of  thatch  and  thistles,  broken 
here  and  there  where  long  leaves  of  grass  grew,  and  held 
down  by  straw-ropes,  or  sugans,  weighted  with  heavy 
stones.  There  was  a  pool  of  slimy,  fetid  water  before  the 
door,  where  four  or  five  ducks  cackled  proudly;  and  from 
a  neighbouring  recess,  so  like  the  habitation  of  men  that 
it  seemed  but  a  cabin  in  miniature,  came  the  low  gruntings 
of  a  pig.  All  was  poor,  lowly,  squalid  —  all  but  the 
merry  little  burn  that  crossed  the  road,  sparkling  gaily 
in  the  morning  sunlight,  and  the  sweet,  clean  birds  that 
perched  everywhere  without  soiling  themselves,  and  sang 
their  little  songs  of  freedom  and  happiness. 

Maxwell  looked  at  the  place  for  a  while,  doubtful 
whether  he  would  pursue  his  investigation  further.  The 
place   was    thoroughly   uninviting;   but    the    deeper   the 


NONCONFORMISTS  21 

degradation,  he  reflected,  the  higher  the  resurrection. 
He  crossed  the  rough  pathway;  and,  bending  low,  he 
entered  the  cabin.  A  flock  of  chickens,  that  were  feeding 
on  broken  potatoes  on  the  rugged  and  muddy  floor, 
protested  loudly  against  the  intrusion.  An  old  woman 
rose  up  painfully  from  a  low  seat  near  the  fire ;  and  spread- 
ing out  her  check  apron,  she  sought  to  drive  away  the 
fowls,  whilst  at  the  same  time  she  curtsied  deeply,  and 
looked  at  the  unexpected  visitor  with  a  pitiful  face  of 
surprise  and  alarm. 

Maxwell  was  astonished  to  see  how  perfectly  clean  and 
decent  the  old  woman  looked  amidst  such  unpromising 
surroundings.  The  check  apron,  which  probably  con- 
cealed a  more  or  less  ragged  dress,  the  red  shawl  that  was 
crossed  on  her  breast,  the  spotless  cap  that  covered  with- 
out concealing  her  gray  hairs  —  all  looked  quite  out  of 
keeping  with  the  dirty  floor  and  the  black  and  rotten 
thatch,  although  they  quite  suited  the  clear,  healthy  com- 
plexion of  the  old  and  feeble  woman.  She  would  have 
said  "God  save  you!"  to  any  ordinary  visitor,  and  prof- 
fered a  chair;  but  she  felt  that  this  w^as  one  of  the  "gin- 
thry,"  and  she  awaited  in  silence  his  introduction. 

"Is  Darby  at  home?"  said  Maxwell,  abruptly.. 

"No,  yer  'anner";  replied  the  old  w^oman.  "He's  just 
gone  down  to  the  masther,  God  bless  him!" 

"Why  do  you  say,  God  bless  him?"  said  Maxwell. 
"Do  you  know  him?" 

"Well,  thin,  indeed,  yer  'anner,  I  don't,"  said  the  old 
woman.  "I  never  set  eyes  on  him  a- yet.  But  sure,  av 
I  did,  I'd  go  down  on  me  two  knees  to  ask  God  to  bless 
him  for  what  he's  doin'  for  mc  poor  little  bhoy!" 


22  LISHEEN 

This  outburst  of  gratitude  was  in  such  singular  contrast 
to  his  own  remorse  of  the  preceding  night,  that  Maxwell 
did  not  know  what  to  think.  He  then  determined  to 
probe  further  to  see  how  far  it  was  genuine, 

"Oh,  come  now,"  he  said,  "I  know  Darby  has  as  hard 
a  master  as  ever  ground  the  faces  of  the  poor.  I  heard 
him  curse  Darby,  and  call  him  all  kinds  of  bad  names!" 

"Wisha,  I  suppose  you  did,  yer  'anner,"  answered  the 
poor  woman,  "  Sure  I  mustn't  contradict  you.  But  sure 
that's  a  way  the  ginthry  has  wid  'em.  I  suppose  they  are 
brought  up  to  it!" 

"And  then,"  continued  Maxwell,  "he  has  your  son  out, 
day  and  night,  in  wet  and  cold,  in  the  river  and  in  the 
lake  up  to  his  waist  in  water;  and,  from  all  I  can  hear, 
he  hardly  gives  him  enough  in  wages  to  keep  body  and 
soul  together," 

"Wisha,  thin,  whoever  was  the  busybody  to  tell  yer 
'anner  that,"  said  the  old  woman,  "would  be  betther 
imployed.  What  have  poor  people  to  do  but  work;  and 
sure  Darby  isn't  made  of  salt  that  a  shower  of  rain  'ud 
melt  him!" 

"But  then  his  master  ought  to  pay  him  decently!"  said 
Maxwell.  "He's  a  rich  man,  and  he  can  well  afford  to 
pay  decent  wages." 

"Maybe  your  'anner  is  thinkin'  of  imployin'  the  poor 
bhoy  yerself,"  said  the  old  woman,  "But  to  tell  ye  the 
truth,  I'm  afraid  Darby  won't  lave  the  masther  he  has, 
av  ye  gev  him  double  the  wages  — " 

"You  have  a  poor  place  here,  my  poor  woman,"  said 
Maxwell,  suddenly  turning  the  conversation.  He  was 
touched  in  spite  of  himself. 


NONCONFORMISTS  23 

'"Tis  poor,  yer  'anner,  but  clane,"  said  the  old  woman, 
"I  try  to  keep  it  as  clane  as  I  can;  but  I'm  ould,  and  I 
haven't  the  strinth  I  had." 

"That  roof  will  fall  soon,"  said  Maxwell,  watching  the 
grimy  timbers  and  rotten  thatch  that  hung  down  in  wisps 
from  the  ceiling. 

'"Twill  hould  this  year,"  said  the  old  woman,  "and 
maybe  we'll  be  able  to  get  half  a  ton  of  straw  with  Darby's 
wages  agin  the  winther." 

"Half  a  ton  of  straw!"  said  Maxwell.  "How  much 
would  that  cost?" 

"Oh,  a  power  an'  all  of  money!"  said  the  old  woman. 
"The  farmers  do  be  thrashin'  now,  an'  we  might  be  able 
to  get  it  chaper  than  in  the  spring." 

"Would  it  cost  five  pounds?"  asked  Maxwell. 

The  old  woman  nearly  got  a  fit. 

"Five  pounds?  Five  pounds?  Yerra,  no,  to  be  sure, 
yer  'anner,  nor  half,  nor  quarter.  Five  pounds!  Yerra, 
'tis  a  long  time  we'd  be  waitin'  before  five  pounds  would 
come  our  way!" 

"Well,  then,  if  Darby's  master  is  as  good  as  you  say 
he  is,  you  shouldn't  want  a  roof  or  thatch  over  your  heads 
very  long!" 

"God  is  good,  yer  'anner!  God  is  good,  an'  he  said 
he  would!  We  can  wait  a  bit  longer,  as  we  waited  so 
long!" 

Maxwell  would  have  liked  to  prolong  the  conversation. 
It  was  novel,  and  deeply  interesting  to  him;  but  the  day 
was  wearing  onward,  and  he  had  seen  enough  to  give  him 
material  for  another  evening  meditation.  He  was  fully 
determined  to  see  more  of  this  strange  people,  although 


24  LISHEEN 

he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  live  their  lives.  And 
then  the  thought  would  occur:  But  how  am  I  to  raise 
them,  if  I  cannot  get  a  footing  amongst  them  ?  One  needs 
a  fulcrum  to  move  the  world,  or  to  raise  up  any  of  its 
fallen.  You  cannot  work  from  without.  All  the  processes 
must  be  inward;  and  all  moral  development  is  on  the  same 
lines  as  physical  development,  from  some  great  secret 
principle  of  strength  and  vitality.  Is  that  principle  want- 
ing in  these  people  altogether;  or  has  it  been  checked  by 
malignant  influences?    Yes,  that  is  the  problem. 


CHAPTER  III 


A  TALISMAN 


Darby  Leary  was  the  happy  boy  as  he  ran,  or  rather 
leaped,  down  the  dusty  road  that  led  from  the  hills  to  the 
lake-level.  The  prospect  of  being  sole  possessor  of  the 
boat,  even  for  a  couple  of  hours,  of  putting  his  red,  bare, 
dusty  feet  on  the  thwarts,  of  leaning  back  and  drawing 
the  oars  through  the  yielding  water,  of  hearing  the  zip! 
zip!  of  the  waves  around  the  prow,  of  resting  in  cool 
shades,  and  watching  for  the  dark  form  of  the  salmon, 
lying  still  with  quivering  fins  and  watchful  eyes  —  was  so 
utterly  delightful  that  he  leaped  up  and  down  the  hedges, 
snapped  his  fingers,  flung  stones  at' imaginary  birds  and 
rabbits,  sang  little  snatches  of  old  Irish  songs,  and  gave 
himself  to  a  very  esctasy  of  anticipated  raptures.  He 
soon  came  in  sight  of  the  pier;  and  there,  yes,  there  was 
the  little  punt  rocking  gently  on  the  water,  and  tugging 
at  the  rope,  as  if  she  were  a  living,  aquatic  thing  that  was 
striving  to  get  back  to  its  elemental  freedom.  He  had 
got  into  the  boat,  and  was  loosening  with  his  strong, 
bony  fingers  the  rope,  when  he  was  startled  by  a  peremp- 
tory order: 

"Stop  that,  and  come  out,  you  sir,  at  once!" 
Darby  looked  around  wondcringly,  and  saw  sitting  on  a 
garden  seat  a  gentleman,  whom  he  recognised  as  one  of 
the  visitors  at  the  hotel.     The  gentleman  appeared  to  be 

25 


26  LISHEEN 

engrossed  in  his  pipe  and  book;  and  Darby,  seeing  no 
signs  of  hostility,  interpreted  this  challenge  as  something 
addressed  to  someone  else,  just  then  invisible.  He  again 
proceeded  to  untie  the  knot,  when  the  same  gruff  voice 
challenged  him  again: 

"Do  you  hear  me,  you  sir?  Drop  that  rope  and  come 
out  of  the  boat!" 

This  time  there  was  no  mistake.  Darby  dropped  the 
rope,  but  thought  he  had  a  right  to  protest. 

"The  masther  tould  me  to  pull  de  boat  around  the 
shore  to  the  shallas,"  he  said. 

"The  master?"  said  Outram.     "What  master?" 

"Misther  Maxall,"  said  Darby.  "The  gintleman  that 
lives  up  in  the  tint,  and  brung  the  salmon  here  last  night." 

"Go  tell  your  master,"  said  Outram,  "that  that  boat  is 
hotel  property,  and  is  at  the  service  of  the  visitors.  I 
want  that  boat  for  a  lady." 

"But  the  masther,"  said  Darby,  now  in  a  quandary 
between  the  two  "gintlemen,"  "tould  me — " 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Outram,  waxing  very  angry,  "to  let 
that  boat  where  it  is,  or  I'll  break  your  head." 

"But  the  masther  will  be  as  mad  as  blazes,"  pleaded 
Darby  in  agony.  "He  wants  to  fish  up  somethin'  he 
lost  yesterday  in  the  lake — " 

"Come  out  at  once,  you  dog,"  said  Outram,  now  stung 
with  vexation  and  pride,  as  he  saw  Mabel  Willoughby, 
with  her  boat  shawls  on  her  arm,  coming  down  the  little 
avenue.  "Come  out,  or,  by  gad,  I'll  pitch  you  into  the 
water." 

He  had  come  over,  and  now  stood  on  the  little  pier, 
overlooking  the  boat.     Darby  was  still  undecided.     The 


A  TALISMAN  27 

prospect  of  a  pleasant  row  across  the  lake,  backed  with  his 
master's  orders,  was  too  much  even  for  his  innate  and 
habitual  dread  of  the  gentry. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  Mabel,  standing  by  Out- 
ram's  side. 

"This  fellow  and  his  'masther,'  as  he  calls  him,  want  to 
monopolize  the  boat.  It  is  the  hotel  property,  as  you 
know,  and  no  one  has  any  rights  in  it  beyond  another. 
Come,  come,  I'll  stand  no  more  nonsense,"  he  cried  to 
Darby,  who  was  still  undecided,  and  looked  a  picture  of 
helplessness,  as  he  drew  the  loosened  rope  through  the 
iron  ring  on  the  pier. 

It  was  too  much  for  Outram's  temper.  He  leaped  in, 
almost  upsetting  the  punt;  and,  as  the  rocking  of  the  boat 
threw  Darby  out  of  his  centre,  Outram  shoved  him 
roughly,  and  the  boy  fell  headlong  into  the  lake. 

Mabel  gave  a  little  shriek;  but  Darby  swam  like  a  dog, 
and  very  soon  pulled  himself,  wet  through  and  dripping, 
on  to  some  sedges  that  lined  the  lake  beyond  the  pier. 
Outram,  without  glancing  at  him,  held  the  rope  taut 
through  the  ring  with  his  left  hand,  with  his  right  he 
handed  Mabel  into  the  boat;  and  then,  sitting  down 
with  some  caution,  lest  the  rocking  should  frighten  his 
companion,  he  pulled  the  punt,  with  a  few  long,  easy 
strokes,  far  into  the  lake. 

"  Maybe  I'll  be  even  with  you  some  day,"  said  Darby, 
casting  a  look  after  the  boat  and  its  occupants  that  would 
have  disturbed  them,  probably,  if  they  could  have  inter- 
preted it  rightly.  He  then  turned  round  and  trotted 
home,  his  wet  garments  leaving  little  streams  of  water 
as  he  went  alone:. 


28  LISHEEN 

Bob  Maxwell,  meanwhile,  had  gone  down  from  the 
widow's  cabin,  past  his  tent,  and  was  leisurely  making 
his  way  through  narrow  and  sinuous  paths  in  the  shrubs 
and  heather  to  the  edge  of  the  lake.  That  brief  interview 
with  the  old  woman  had  again  stirred  up  strange  reflec- 
tions in  his  mind.  It  was  quite  clear  that  here  was  a 
world  of  which  hitherto  he  had  been  profoundly  ignorant 
—  a  world  where  poverty  reigned  supreme,  and  yet  was 
but  a  gentle  tyrant,  for  patience  and  resignation  under 
hard  circumstances  made  easy  a  yoke  that  seemed  to  one, 
not  inured  to  hardship,  impossible  to  bear.  And  what  a 
gulf  between  his  condition  and  theirs!  What  a  colossal 
sum  five  pounds  seemed  to  the  imagination  of  that  poor 
woman  —  five  pounds,  that  he  had  often  flung  away  on  a 
race,  on  a  dog,  and  thought  no  further  of  it.  And  that 
five  pounds,  wrung  from  the  sweat  and  labour  of  these 
toiling  and  patient  poor!  There  was  some  abominable 
blunder  here  in  the  economy  of  things;  and  though  his 
education  and  training  and  tradition  had  hitherto  led  him 
to  think  lightly  of  such  matters,  some  deep  chord,  hidden 
from  his  own  consciousness,  was  now  stirred,  and  throbbed 
with  new  emotions  of  a  generous  and  noble  spirit.  But 
Bob  Maxwell  was  mercurial,  like  all  such  spirits;  and  his 
education  was  far  from  being  complete.  The  great 
principles  that  alone  can  live  amidst  the  stress  and  storm 
of  passion  and  prejudice  had  not  yet  taken  root.  Only 
the  fair  seeds  had  been  lodged  on  the  surface  of  his  soul, 
which  every  wind  might  drive  away  and  disperse. 

Hence,  when  he  reached  the  lake,  and  saw-  no  trace 
of  his  boat,  he  leaped  into  a  sudden  rage  against  Darby. 

"D them!"  he  said,  anathematizing  Darby  and 


A  TALISMAN  29 

his  class,  "one  can  never  trust  them.  They  are  all  right 
to-day;  and  to-morrow —  What  can  ail  the  fellow,  I 
wonder?  He  had  plenty  of  time  to  get  down  to  the  pier 
and  pull  the  punt  around.  Probably  he  met  a  chum,  and 
is  now  calmly  smoking  against  the  pier-wall." 

He  sat  down  on  some  withered  bracken,  drew  out  his 
cigarette-case,  and  smoked.  This  calmed  his  passion 
for  the  moment;  but  he  had  hardly  rolled  and  lighted 
a  second  cigarette,  when  the  soft  plash  of  oars  woke  him 
from  a  reverie;  and  looking  around,  he  just  caught  the- 
black  nose  of  the  punt  rounding  the  angle  of  the  lake, 
over  which  some  willow  trees  were  bending.  The  flutter 
of  a  lady's  veil  made  his  heart  beat  quicker  for  a  moment, 
as  he  thought  Mabel  had  ordered  Darby  to  take  her  with 
him.  Then,  another  glance  showed  the  long,  lithe, 
muscular  form  of  Outram,  whose  gray  jacket  and  white 
flannels  showed  bright  in  the  sunlight.  Maxwell  was  on 
his  feet  in  an  instant ;  and  in  another  moment  he  withdrew 
into  the  shelter  of  the  copse.  He  did  not  care  to  be  seen 
there  by  these  two;  nor  did  he  care  to  observe  them  from 
his  hiding-place.  But  some  singular  fascination  held 
him  there;  and  he  stood  sheltered  from  observation,  but 
rooted  to  the  ground  by  the  spell  of  their  presence. 

Outram  was  leisurely  drawing  his  oars  through  the 
placid  water,  each  swing  showing  his  powerful  chest  and 
muscles.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  face  of  his  compan- 
ion; and  she,  with  face  averted,  was  drawing  her  un- 
gloved hand  through  the  cool  ripples  made  by  the  boat. 
To  Maxwell  the  scene  was  maddening;  and  he  made  a 
hundred  furious  and  frantic  resolutions  about  his  future. 
Then  the  oar  struck  something,  and  Mabel  stretching 


30  LISHEEN 

out  her  hand  drew  from  the  lake  the  swollen,  saturated 
volume  he  had  dropped  the  evening  before.  He  saw 
her  hold  it  up  in  a  gingerly  way;  then  drop  it  into  the  boat, 
with  a  merry  laugh  that  echoed  over  the  waters.  Outram 
raised  the  oars,  and  allowed  the  boat  to  drift;  and  in  a 
few  minutes  they  had  passed  from  Maxwell's  sight. 

He  would  have  given  way  to  an  outburst  of  unrestrained 
passion;  but  it  was  one  of  those  occasions  when  reason 
comes  to  the  rescue,  and,  brushing  emotion  aside,  re- 
places it  with  a  firm,  desperate  resolve.  It  was  all  over 
now  between  himself  and  his  cousin.  This  little  episode 
revealed  many  things,  or  rather  confirmed  his  belief  in 
suspicions  already  harboured.  And  somehow  his  read- 
ing, his  reflections,  his  experiences,  had  all  the  tendency 
to  compel  him  to  look  away  from  this  siren  and  all  that 
an  alliance  with  her  promised  of  happiness  and  pride; 
and  to  gaze  forward  to  more  heroic  paths  of  self-denial 
and  endurance  for  himself,  and  the  possibility  of  making 
a  noble  use  of  a  life  that  might  be  cut  short  at  any  time. 
For  it  was  under  medical  advice  that  Bob  Maxwell  had 
come  down  to  these  primitive  regions,  and  was  now  living 
an  open-air  and  strictly  temperate  life.  He  had  an  in- 
herited tendency  to  gout;  and  had  already  had  two  severe 
rheumatic  attacks.  And,  although  assured  that  there 
was  no  heart  lesion,  there  was  the  predisposition  to  a 
disease,  that  could  only  be  averted  by  exercise,  temper- 
ance, and  care.  This  narrow  hold  on  life  often  leads 
men  to  think  seriously  of  things,  which  in  the  full  lusti- 
ness of  unimpaired  health  they  would  probably  ignore. 
The  thought  of  a  probably  short  life,  and  the  possibility 
of  making  it  a  noble  one,  was  every  day  impressing  itself 


A  TALISMAN  31 

more  deeply  on  the  young  man's  mind.  He  went  slowly 
homewards.  One  tie  to  the  old  life,  the  life  of  conven- 
tion and  tradition,  was  rudely  broken. 

"Did  you  see  Darby,  Aleck?"  he  asked  his  valet. 

"He  gacd  up  yon  hill  an  hour  agone,  dripping  like  a 
spoonge,"  said  Aleck. 

"He  did  not  call  here?"  said  Maxwell. 

"Nae;  I  guess  the  laddie  was  nae  presentable!" 

Maxwell  was  silent;  and  the  shrewd  Scotchman  saw  at 
a  glance  that  something  untoward  had  happened. 

"Tak'  yer  gun,  and  kill  somethin',"  he  said. 

And  Maxwell  obeyed  him. 

He  went  up  towards  the  mountains,  trudging  along  in  a 
kind  of  desperation.  He  broke  from  the  main  road  into 
the  heather,  pursued  little  footpaths  worn  by  winter 
rains  and  the  feet  of  the  country  folks,  who  came  down 
from  their  cabins,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  to  Mass  in  the 
valley.  He  was  an  eager  sportsma,n,  but  somehow  his 
usual  enthusiasm  was  to-day  absent.  Birds  rose  up 
around  him,  whistled  in  shrill  alarm,  and  whirred  away 
unharmed  and  unhurt.  He  had  climbed  steep  hills, 
looked  in  an  unconscious  way  down  from  their  summits 
on  lake  and  hotel,  nestling  far  below;  then  turned  again 
and  climbed  still  greater  heights,  trying  by  the  sheer  force 
of  physical  exercise  to  drive  away  the  fierce  thoughts  that 
were  tormenting  him.  At  last  he  startled  a  hare  in  her 
form,  and  mechanically  he  raised  his  gun.  A  rough  voice 
behind  him  shouted: 

"Fire,  yer  'anner,  fire!" 

He  pulled  the  two  triggers  simultaneously,  and  the 
animal  rolled  over  as  if  dead.     Darby  sprang  forward 


32  LISHEEN 

and  took  it  up.  Maxwell  came  over  and  looked  at  the 
pitiful  appeal  in  the  eyes  of  the  dying  animal.  He  was 
ashamed  of  himself. 

"It  was  an  unsportsmanlike  act,"  he  thought,  and  so  it 
was. 

"Why  did  you  shout.  Darby?"  he  cried.  "It  is  mean 
to  shoot  a  hare." 

"Yerra,  what  harrum  is  it,  yer  'anner?"  said  Darby. 
"It  will  make  grate  soup  intirely  for  the  Scotchman." 

"Take  it  home  to  your  mother,"  said  Maxwell.  Then, 
as  if  recollecting  something,  he  said: 

"You  didn't  take  my  orders  this  morning.  I  waited 
down  near  the  lake  for  nearly  an  hour;  and  you  never 
turned  up  with  the  punt." 

"The  gintleman  wouldn't  lave  me,"  said  Darby. 

"What  gintleman?"  queried  Maxwell. 

"The  big,  long  gintleman  wid  the  sandy  hair  and 
whiskers,"  said  Darby. 

"Mr.  Outram?    What  did  he  say?"  asked  Maxwell. 

"Begobs,  it  wasn't  what  he  said,  but  what  he  done," 
replied  Darby. 

"What  did  he  do?"  said  Maxwell,  interested  beyond 
appearance. 

"'Come  out,'  sez  he,"  replied  Darby.  "'I  won't,' 
sez  I.  'Come  out,'  agin  sez  he.  'I  won't,'  sez  I.  Thin 
he  jumped  in  and  flung  me  into  the  wather,  head  fore- 
most." 

"What?"  cried  Maxwell,  "flung  you  into  the  lake?" 

"Yes,  begobs";  replied  Darby.  "Look  at  me.  I'm 
not  dhry  a-yet!" 

Maxwell  went  over  and  felt  the  boy's  garments.     They 


A  TALISMAN  33 

were  still  damp  and  clung  close  to  his  long,  lank 
figure. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Maxwell,  "and  tell  me  how  it  all 
happened!" 

Darby  sat  down  at  a  respectful  distance  from  his  master, 
and  narrated  in  detail  all  that  had  occurred  from  the 
first  gruff  order  until  he  found  himself  in  the  lake. 

"Why  didn't  you  pitch  him  out  of  the  boat  when  he 
dared  seize  it?"  said  Maxwell  when  the  boy  had  finished. 

"Yerra,  is  it  me,  yer  'anner?"  said  Darby,  with  a  face 
of  horror  and  incredulity,  "is  it  me  to  tetch  a  gintleman?" 

"He  tried  to  drown  you!"  said  Maxwell. 

"But  he's  a  gintleman,  an'  I'm  only  a  poor  bhoy," 
said  Darby.  "Sure  they'd  hang  me  in  Tralee  gaol  if  I 
threw  him  in." 

"It's  the  scoundrel  himself  that  should  be  hanged," 
said  Maxwell.  "Come,  the  matter  mustn't  rest  here. 
You  must  come  with  me." 

"  Oh,  for  the  love  of  God,  yer  'anner,"  pleaded  Darby, 
"lave  the  matter  alone." 

"I'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Maxwell.  "You'll 
have  to  come  down  this  moment  and  swear  information 
at  the  constabulary  depot  against  that  ruffian.  I'll  have 
him  arrested  this  evening,  so  help  me  God!" 

Darby  was  now  thoroughly  frightened.  To  approach 
the  police  office  at  all  would  have  been  a  trial.  To 
approach  it  to  take  an  oath  would  be  still  more  dreadful. 
To  swear  informations  against  a  gentleman  would  be  the 
climax.  Maxwell  urged  him,  coaxed  him,  threatened  him. 
He  was  anxious  to  drag  the  matter  before  the  public  if  he 
could.  He  had  his  own  object  in  view.  It  was  all  in 
3 


34  LISHEEN 

vain.  Darby  saw,  with  the  shrewdness  of  his  class,  that 
not  only  would  he  not  be  listened  to,  but  that  he  would 
forfeit  any  chance  of  being  employed  again  by  the  visitors 
at  the  hotel.  Whatever  his  own  desire  or  promptings  of 
revenge  might  be,  this  was  not  the  time  or  place.  At  last 
Maxwell  let  him  go. 

"You  are  a  coward,  Darby,"  he  said,  "like  all  your 
class." 

"I  suppose  I  am,  yer  'anner,"  said  Darby;  "but  poor 
people  must  keep  themselves  quiet,  where  they're  makin' 
a  hvin'." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Maxwell,  "but  that  scoundrel  was 
a  greater  coward  than  you." 

He  went  down  to  the  hotel  after  dinner;  and  was  shown 
into  the  Major's  room.  The  major  was  in  an  amiable 
mood. 

"Hallo!  Bob,  how  are  you?  What  did  you  catch 
to-day?" 

"You  must  ask  Miss  Willoughby  and  Mr.  Outram  that 
question,"  he  said.     "They  had  the  boat  to-day." 

"  Ye-es,"  said  the  Major  in  a  dubious  kind  of  way.  "I 
heard  Mabel  say  she  had  a  row  on  the  lake  with  Outram. 
Why  weren't  you  with  them?" 

"The  punt  has  scarcely  room  for  two,"  said  Maxwell. 
"I  ran  over  the  mountains  with  my  gun.  But  I  have  just 
run  down,  sir,  to  say  good-bye.  I  am  off  to  Dublin 
to-morrow." 

"No,"  said  the  Major,  quite  alarmed.  "Why,  what's 
the  matter?" 

"Well,  you  see,  the  year  is  running  late,"  said  Bob. 
"My  agent  writes  to  say  he  cannot  get  in  the  September 


A  TALISMAN  35 

rents;  the  evenings  are  getting  cold,  and  I  don't  want  to 
get  back  that  rheumatism  again." 

The  Major  was  silent.  Bob  was  advancing  too  many 
reasons.     He  was  proving  too  much. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "I  shall  be  sorry.     But  we 

must  all  be  clearing  out  soon.     With  these  d tourists 

and  carpet-baggers  filling  every  seat  at  table,  and  grinning 
in  at  every  window,  the  place  is  intolerable." 

"Well,  good-bye,  sir,"  said  Maxwell,  extending  his 
hand. 

"Good-bye,"  said  the  Major,  reluctantly.  Then,  when 
MaxwxU  was  moving  to  the  door,  he  cried  out: 

"I  say.  Bob!" 

Maxwell  came  back. 

"You  didn't  mind  those  hasty  expressions  of  mine  last 

night?     'Tis  all  this  d gout,  you  know.     You'll  have 

it  yet,  so  have  pity  on  a  poor  sufferer.  Say,  you  didn't 
mind?" 

"Don't  speak  about  it,  sir!"  said  Maxwell.  "I  forgot 
all  about  it  before  I  had  got  to  my  tent.  'Twasn't  worth 
mentioning." 

"Thanks.  You  were  always  a  good  fellow.  Good-bye  I 
Of  course  you'll  see  Mabel?" 

This  time  Maxwell  did  not  reply. 

As  he  passed  out  there  was  a  group  on  the  veranda. 
It  was  quite  dark.  Outram,  the  centre  of  an  admiring 
circle,  was  showing  how  a  wonderful  ring  which  he  wore 
on  his  middle  finger  emitted  waves  of  light,  exactly  like 
phosphorus,  in  the  dark.  He  had  got  it,  bought  it,  stolen 
it,  begged  it,  he  said,  from  a  certain  Brahmin  in  India. 
It  was  a  kind  of  opal,  dull  during  the  day,  like  a  cataract 


36  LISHEEN 

on  a  blind  man's  eye.    It  was  only  in  the  dark  it  smoked 
and  shone, 

"It  is  a  talisman,"  he  heard  Outram  saying.  "Who- 
ever wears  it  cannot  die  a  violent  death.  I  have  seen  it 
proved." 


CHAPTER  IV 


A  TOLSTOI  DEBATE 


On  a  lovely  autumn  evening,  later  on  in  the  year  in 
which  the  little  incidents  narrated  in  the  previous  chapters 
had  occurred,  Ovi^en  McAuliffe  sat  at  the  door  of  his 
little  cottage  in  Lisheen.  He  vpas  bent  forward,  his  hands 
clasped  between  his  knees,  denoting  the  usual  meditative 
attitude  of  his  class.  He  was  not  an  old  man;  but  his 
face  was  furrowed  deeply  with  care,  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  drooped  downwards,  and  there  was  a  network  of 
wrinkles  in  his  neck.  His  hands  were  coarse  and  callous 
from  constant  work;  and  the  strong  nails  on  his  fingers 
were  hard  as  iron,  and  much  of  an  iron  hue.  He  was 
thinking;  and  thinking,  like  every  other  poor  Irish  farmer, 
of  his  hard  lot.  Toil  and  trouble  —  toil  during  labouring 
hours,  and  trouble  in  the  hours  of  relaxation  —  this  is 
their  lot  in  life.  A  great  sycamore  tree  in  front  of  the 
house  was  turning  yellow  under  the  autumnal  frosts;  and 
across  the  level  landscape  that  stretched  to  the  horizon, 
the  whole  scene  was  dappled  red  and  russet  and  saffron, 
in  hedgerow,  plantation,  and  wood.  But  he  had  no  eyes 
for  such  things.  His  thoughts  were  turned  inward,  search- 
ing for  a  solution  of  the  problems  of  life.  The  urgent 
and  immediate  problem  was,  first,  to  meet  the  demand 
for  the  March  rent  that  had  just  come  in;  and  second, 
how  to  procure  labour  to  turn  up  the  fields  for  the  spring 

37 


38  LISHEEN 

sowing.  Out  of  a  family  of  eight  children,  two  alone,  a 
boy  and  a  girl,  remained  for  his  old  age.  The  rest  had 
gone  to  America,  like  the  majority  of  their  fellow-country- 
men. Some  apparently  had  done  well  and  kept  up  a 
correspondence  with  the  old  home  for  a  time,  then  dropped 
it.  Some  had  never  written  after  the  landing-letter. 
What  had  become  of  them  no  one  knew.  The  two  re- 
maining children,  infected  with  the  common  madness, 
that  would  exchange  for  the  prospect  of  gold  all  the 
sweetness  and  beauty  of  life  for  all  its  foulness  and  sor- 
didness,  were  straining  against  the  bonds  of  affection  that 
held  them  captives  at  home,  and  pining  for  the  fatal 
liberty  that  would  plunge  them  into  the  vortex  of  American 
life.  Some  tillage  had  to  be  done,  because  the  price  of 
cattle  had  gone  down,  and  there  had  been  some  severe 
losses  during  the  year.  And  there  was  only  this  boy, 
Pierce,  or  Pierry,  as  he  was  called.  Not  a  labourer  was  to 
be  had  for  love  or  money.  The  price  of  labour  had  gone 
up  so  high,  that  only  the  strong  farmers  were  able  to 
keep  and  support  one. 

Owen  McAuliffe  sat  a  long  time  in  meditation,  turning 
over  the  eternal  problem  in  his  mind.  He  was  aroused 
by  the  voice  of  his  wife: 

"Let  ye  cum  in  to  the  supper.  The  praties  will  be 
could!" 

The  invitation  was  addressed  to  her  husband,  sitting 
pensively  in  the  porch,  and  to  her  son,  who,  after  having 
seen  everything  in  barn,  dairy,  and  outhouse  snug  for  the 
night,  was  looking  with  longing  eyes  towards  where  the 
sun,  in  a  splendid  drapery  of  clouds,  was  sinking  slowly 
into  the  west. 


A  TOLSTOI  DEBATE  39 

The  two  men  went  in  with  that  heavy  and  weary  step 
that  betokens  not  so  much  the  leaden  foot  as  the  burdened 
mind,  and  sat  down  on  the  humble  sugan  chairs  around 
the  kitchen  table  that  was  drawn  close  under  the  solitary 
and  narrow  window.  There  was  no  table  cloth,  but  a 
pile  of  smoking  potatoes,  bursting  their  jackets,  garnished 
the  table;  and  there  were  two  wooden  porringers  of  milk, 
each  with  a  perpendicular  handle,  that  needed  some 
experience  to  use  it.  The  mother  and  her  daughter,  a 
bright  country  lass  of  eighteen  or  twenty  years,  stood 
apart,  and  watched  or  tended  the  men.  They  had  had 
tea  an  hour  before;  they  left  the  more  substantial  things 
for  the  labourers. 

The  meal  proceeded  in  silence,  the  two  men  peeling  the 
potatoes  with  their  rough  nails,  and  swallowing  each  with 
mouthfuls  of  sweet  milk.  The  mother  was  bending  over 
the  hearth-fire,  and  Debbie  was  dragging  backward  and 
forward  huge  kettles  or  saucepans,  when  the  older  man  said: 

"How  much  have  we  in  the  house,  Maurya,  to  meet  the 
agint?" 

"Betwane  seven  and  eight  pounds,  didn't  I  tell  ye?" 
said  the  mother. 

"He  won't  take  it,"  said  the  old  man.  "He'll  pitch  it 
back,  as  he  did  afore." 

"Thin,  I'd  pitch  him  to  the  divil,"  said  Pierry  in  a 
passionate  way.  "Bejabs,  it  is  a  cjuare  thing  intirely:  we 
starving  on  praties  and  milk,  and  him  dragging  the  life- 
blood  from  us!" 

"You  shouldn't  fault  the  praties  an'  milk,"  said  his 
father.  "God  give  them;  and  we  would  be  badly  off 
without  'em." 


40  LISHEEN 

"I'm  not  faulting  them,"  said  Pierry.  "But  it  is  the 
divil's  own  quare  thing  that  we  should  be  workin'  for  the 
likes  of  that  fellow,  when  there's  a  free  land  and  plenty 
to  eat  and  dhrink  acrass  the  wather." 

"You're  tarkin'  of  that  too  much,"  said  the  mother, 
interfering.  "Many  a  good  man,  and  good  woman,  too, 
was  reared  on  praties  an'  milk.  An'  as  for  America, 
there's  good  an'  bad  news,  I  suppose.  At  laste,  I  wish 
'twas  sunk  in  the  say,  before  I  ever  hard  of  it." 

"There's  no  use  in  cadraulin'  about  that  subjec',"  said 
Owen  McAuliffe,  rising  from  the  table,  and  taking  out  his 
pipe  to  redden  it,  "America  or  no  America,  how  am  I  to 
meet  the  agint  on  Friday,  I  wants  to  know?" 

"Take  in  the  seven  pounds,"  said  Pierry,  not  much 
mollified  by  his  mother's  remarks,  "  ax  him  for  a  reduction, 
or  time;  an'  if  he  refuses,  put  it  in  your  pocket,  an'  come 
home!" 

"And  thin,  the  attorney's  letter  an'  the  writ  in  three 
days,  an'  all  the  expinse  besides,"  said  his  father. 

"Let  'em  do  their  best,"  said  his  son.  "Dhrive  the 
cattle  up  to  the  hills,  army  of  the  naybours  will  give  them 
grass;  and  let  the  bailiffs  come  here  for  a  warrum  welkum!" 

"Don't  mind  that  foolish  boy,"  said  the  mother.  "Thry 
ould  Dinis  McCarthy  agin.  He'll  gwine  to  the  bank  and 
rise  it  wid  you." 

"I  don't  like  bein'  behoulden  to  Dinis  agin,"  answered 
her  husband.  "He  made  mountains  about  it  the  last 
time." 

There  was  a  long  pause  of  silence.  The  old  man 
smoked  calmly,  sitting  on  a  rough  slate  bench  near  the 
hearth;   the   mother  sat   looking  pensively   at   the   fire; 


A  TOLSTOI  DEBATE  41 

Pierry  looked  through  the  narrow  window  in  a  sullen, 
angry  manner.  Debbie  was  clearing  away  the  supper 
refuse  from  the  table.  When  she  had  finished,  she  came 
over  and  stood  looking  down  at  her  father  and  mother. 
Then  she  said  quietly: 

''I  think  Pierry  is  right,  mother.  There's  nayther  sinse 
nor  raison  in  our  stopping  here,  toiling  from  morning  to 
night,  making  money  for  the  landlord,  when  there's  a  free 
counthry  only  five  days'  journey  across  the  wather.  Let 
us  sell  out,  in  God's  Name!  Lizzie  is  dying  to  have  us 
all  in  Boston,  where  nayther  you  nor  father  need  ever  wet 
yere  hands  agin;  but  have  carpets  ondher  yere  feet,  an' 
the  besht  of  atin'  an'  dhrinkin'.  Come,  let  us  go,  in 
God's  Name." 

She  spoke  earnestly,  almost  passionately.  It  was  her 
thought,  sleeping  and  waking. 

There  was  another  deep  pause  of  silence.  The  poor 
old  mother  was  silently  weeping.  It  was  not  the  first  or 
second  time  this  proposal,  which  was  heart-breaking  to  her, 
had  been  made  by  her  children.  She  knew  that  nothing 
could  exorcise  the  dread  discontent  of  home-life,  the  dread 
enchantment  of  America.  And  this  was  her  own  home. 
Here  she  was  born  (for  Owen  McAuliffe  had  merely  come 
in  with  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds  from  the  County 
Limerick);  here  she  was  brought  up;  here  she  learned  her 
prayers  and  first  lessons;  here  she  said  good-bye  to  her 
dead  parents;  here,  on  this  kitchen  floor,  she  had  danced 
the  night  of  her  marriage ;  and  here  were  her  eight  children 
born  and  brought  up  with  her  more  than  usual  solicitude. 
She  knew  every  rafter  in  the  blackened  roof,  every  stone 
in  the  fireplace,  every  bush  on  the  hedges,  every  tree  around 


42  LISHEEN 

her  fields.  Every  winter  had  brought  its  songs  and  stories 
for  sixty  years  around  that  hearth.  Every  summer  the 
golden  fields  and  the  cross-road  dances.  True,  her  life 
had  been  a  life  of  sorrow  and  hardship;  but  these  very 
things  consecrated  the  place  still  more.  Every  soul  loves 
the  place  of  its  crucifixion;  and  her  humble  Calvary  was 
knit  into  her  life,  like  a  living  thing.  And  to  think  of 
leaving  all  that,  and  going  away  into  a  strange,  mysterious 
country,  a  peopled  desert,  where  for  every  one  that  crossed 
its  desolation  and  emerged  successful,  a  hundred  had  gone 
down  and  were  lost!  Oh,  no;  the  thought  was  too  dread- 
ful; and  it  broke  out  in  the  eloquence  of  her  silent  tears. 

Owen  McAuliffe  bore  the  ordeal  for  a  time.  Then, 
rising  up,  he  simply  pointed  with  his  pipe  at  the  weeping 
woman,  and  said: 

"There!" 

He  walked  out  slowly  into  the  field  beyond  the  yard. 

Debbie,  ashamed  of  her  mistake,  which,  however,  she 
had  often  made  before,  came  over  to  her  brother.  They 
were  a  splendid  picture,  but  gloom  and  sorrow  were  over 
them  that  evening.  After  a  pause,  Debbie  said  in  a  soft 
undertone : 

"You'll  be  turnin'  the  high  field  to-morra?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  replied.  "'Tis  the  divil's  own  job 
for  wan  man;  and  father  can't  do  much  now!" 

"Who  knows?"  said  Debbie,  trying  to  give  him  a 
courage  she  did  not  feel  herself.  "God  may  sind  some 
wan  this  way!" 

"Yes,"  he  said  bitterly.  "Some  wan  who'll  ate  us  out 
of  house  and  home,  and  want  more  wages  than  the  rint." 

It  was  too  true.     She  desisted. 


A  TOLSTOI  DEBATE  43 

That  same  evening,  at  a  certain  aristocratic  club  in 
Dawson  Street,  Dublin,  five  or  six  gentlemen  were  in  the 
smoking-room,  discussing  the  papers  and  the  world-news. 
They  had  met  after  luncheon  for  business;  and  the  nature 
of  the  business  might  be  guessed  from  a  sheaf  of  telegrams 
that  had  been  sent  at  five  o'clock  over  the  country  and  to 
the  great  landlord  clubs  and  centres  in  the  cities.  The 
telegrams  were  brief: 

No  purchase.     No  abalcment.     Bide  time. 
Six  words,  which  in  a  month's  time  carried  desolation 
into  many  a  Munster  and  Connemara  cabin. 

This  decision,  however,  was  not  arrived  at  without  a 
fierce  and  angry  debate;  and  it  was  by  no  means  unani- 
mous. One  or  two  members  of  the  landlord  class  had 
vehemently  opposed  it,  partly  on  grounds  of  prudence, 
partly  for  humanitarian  motives.  Bob  Maxwell  had 
spoken  with  unusual  heat,  and  very  much  to  the  surprise 
of  his  hearers,  against  any  movement  that  might  tend  to 
accentuate  the  angry  feelings  of  the  people,  and  their 
antagonism  to  the  landlord  class.  The  debate  was  brought 
into  the  smoking-room,  and  was  continued  thus: 

"I  can't  see,  Maxwell,  for  the  life  of  me,  what  you  are 
up  to,"  said  a  great  burly  specimen  of  his  class,  clean- 
shaven, despotic,  swinging  his  arms  everpvhere,  as  if  he 
were  always  using  the  whip.  "Or  where  the  devil  you 
picked  up  these  newfangled  notions.  We  are  losing 
everything  we  have,  bit  by  bit,  and  will  soon  be  reduced 
to  the  rank  of  paupers  — " 

"Better  be  paupers  yourselves,  than  keep  others  pau- 
pers," interjected  Maxwell.  "The  whole  of  this  unhappy 
country  is  pauperized   and  beggared  by  what  you  are 


44  LISHEEN 

pleased  to  call  the  rights  of  property.  In  God's  Name, 
try  and  recognise  the  fact  that  your  countrymen  have 
bodies  and  souls  like  yourselves,  and  have  a  right  to  live 
as  well  as  you!" 

"But,  look  here,  this  is  all  d d  socialism  and  com- 
munism. You  want  to  upset  everything.  Can't  you 
leave  things  as  they  are,  and  do  as  your  forefathers  before 
you?" 

"Most  certainly  not,"  said  Maxwell.  "My  forefathers, 
as  you  call  them,  inherited  evil  traditions,  and,  by  Heaven, 
'tis  time  to  break  them.  All  over  the  world  the  people 
are  rising  up  and  crying  aloud;  and  I  tell  you,  you  must 
listen  to  them,  or  suffer  for  it." 

"Pshaw!"  cried  another  landlord.  "They  have  tried 
everything  they  could  here,  even  murder,  and  they  have 
failed.  One  year  of  resolute  government,  and  there  was 
peace  forever." 

"You  have  ill-measured  the  people's  power,"  said 
Maxwell.  "They  have  learned  it  in  France;  they  ha.ve 
been  taught  it  in  Hungary  and  Austria;  slowly  they  are 
fathoming  its  depths  and  strength  in  Russia.  Take  care, 
you  may  have  to  learn  it  here  also,  and  the  lesson  will  be 
a  bitter  one." 

"They  have  done  their  best,  d them,"  said  the  first 

speaker,  "to  crush  and  pauperize  us;  and  now  they're 
going.  In  a  few  years,  we'll  have  decent  English  and 
Scotchmen  on  our  lands  — " 

"And  will  they  pay  your  rents?"  asked  Maxwell. 

There  was  no  answer. 

Outram,  who  had  come  home  to  enjoy  his  property  in 
Ireland,  and  who  had  not  the  benefit  of  experience  to 


A  TOLSTOI  DEBATE  •  45 

subdue  his  contempt  for  another  subject  race,  had  been 
silent  during  the  discussion.  There  was  a  distinct  cool- 
ness between  himself  and  Maxwell;  and  he  did  not  trust 
his  temper  to  speak,  although  he  raged  at  the  ideas  Max- 
well v/as  propounding.  At  last,  as  the  dinner  hour 
approached,  he  said  with  almost  imperceptible  sarcasm: 

"Mr.  Maxwell  has  the  advantage  in  debate  over  you, 
gentlemen.     He  is  a  reading  man." 

"Reading?  What  has  reading  to  do  with  the  matter?" 
said  one  of  the  former  speakers.  "This  is  a  question  of 
common  sense  and  self-preservation!" 

"Yes,"  said  Outram,  with  some  malice,  "but  if  you 
read  of  noblemen  in  other  countries  giving  up  everything, 
and  going  down  amongst  the  common  people  and  living 
their  lives,  you  are  naturally  disposed  to  do  the  same 
yourself." 

"Going  down  amongst  the  people  and  leading  their 
lives?"  echoed  the  other.  "What  infernal  lunatic  has 
done  that?" 

"Ask  Maxwell,"  said  Outram.  "I  know  but  little 
about  him!" 

Maxwell  bit  his  lip  and  said  nothing.  There  was  a 
silence  for  a  few  minutes.     Then  Outram  continued : 

"It  is  quite  true  that  some,  even  Tolstoi's  own  intimates 
—  you  have  heard  of  Tolstoi,  of  course?" 

"Tolstoi!  Tolstoi!  Never.  Who  is  he  and  what  is 
he?" 

"Well,  as  Maxwell  who  knows  him  best  won't  speak, 
I  suppose  I  must,  especially  as  Tolstoi  has  come  to  Ireland. 
He  is  a  Russian  Count  who  thinks  he  is  sent  as  a  savior 
to  his  people.     He  sympathizes  with  the  people  and  wants 


46  LISHEEN 

to  lift  them;  and  in  order  to  do  so  he  has  gone  among  the 
moudjiks,  that's  what  they  call  the  Russian  peasants,  tried 
to  live  their  lives,  etc.,  etc." 

He  paused;  but  Maxvi^ell  would  not  be  drawn. 

'"Tis  true,"  Outram  continued,  "that  he  has  given  up 
all  his  estates  —  to  his  wife ;  that  he  has  renounced  his 
income  —  that  is,  all  of  it  that  he  doesn't  possess;  that 
he  is  a  beggar  —  but  lives,  in  a  certain  degree  of  luxury, 
in  his  wife's  house  in  Yasnaia  Soliana;  that  he  has  left 
house  and  lands  and  family  —  except  in  so  far  as  he 
clings  to  them;  and  that  he  is  a  kind  of  malodorous  fakir, 
such  as  I  have  often  seen  in  his  leprous  rags  on  the  Hooghly, 
except,  that  his  wife  puts  a  sachet  of  petal-dust  under  his 
linen  in  the  drawer;  and  that  under  the  peasant's  pelisse 
is  fine  linen,  lavendered  and  voluptuous  with  Eau  de 
Chypre  and  Parma  Violets." 

Maxwell  had  now  turned  round  with  blazing  eyes. 

"That  is  the  usual  class  calumny,"  he  cried.  "We 
heard  the  same  here  of  O'Connell,  of  Parnell,  and  the 
rest." 

"I  am  quoting  the  words  of  his  brother-in-law,  Bers," 
said  Outram,  coolly.  "And  all  experience  proves  them. 
When  you  hear  of  all  this  self-renunciation  and  sanctity, 
you  may  be  sure  the  hair-shirt  is  not  worn  next  the  skin. 
I,  even  I,  should  not  object  to  take  the  role  of  prophet 
and  reformer  on  Tolstoi's  terms." 

"You're  talking  rot,  both  of  you,"  said  an  elderly  man. 
"Any  man  who  would  preach,  much  more  practise,  such 
doctrines,  would  be  promptly  placed  in  a  lunatic  asylum 
by  his  friends." 

"Not  by  any  means,"  said  Outram,  with  cutting  sar- 


A  TOLSTOI   DEBATE  47 

casm.  "There  are  young  men  in  Ireland  to-day  who  are 
prepared  for  sacrifice.  I  heard  of  one  the  other  day,  who 
took  up  a  dying  woman  from  the  streets,  carried  her  to 
his  house,  and  when  she  was  refused  admission  into  a 
pubHc  hospital,  nursed  her  at  his  home  till  she  died;  and 
who  paid  forty  pounds  a  year  out  of  a  salary  of  sixty  to 
send  his  future  wife  abroad  to  Davos  Platz,  till  she  had 
been  cured  of  consumption,  and  then  married  her.  And 
there  are  some  of  ourselves  who  would  not  hesitate  a 
moment  to  go  down  to  Kerry  and  dig  potatoes  with  — " 

"There!  There!  You're  always  sarcastic,  Outram. 
You  know  too  much  of  coolies  and  the  like  — " 

"I  assure  you,"  said  Outram,  "I  was  never  more  serious 
in  my  life.  The  new  wine  has  been  poured  into  new  bot- 
tles. I  know  men  who  would  not  shrink  from  the  hard- 
ships of  the  Irish  peasant's  life,  if  they  only  could  supply 
a  motive  for  going  down  amongst  them,  such  as  to  study 
their  condition,  to  elevate  them,  to'  lift  them  up  to  a 
higher  standard.  At  least,"  he  said,  as  if  correcting  him- 
self, "I  have  heard  those  opinions  expressed.  I  have  not 
seen  them  put  in  practice  as  yet." 

"Nor  are  you  likely,  by  Jove,"  said  the  other.  "What? 
An  Irish  gentleman  gi^'ing  up  house  and  comforts  to  go 
down  amongst  the  farmers?  Ha!  ha!  Well,  that  is  a 
good  one!" 

"You  consider  it  quite  incredible?"  asked  Maxwell, 
standing  up  and  planting  his  feet  on  the  mat  before  the 
fire. 

"Quite!  We've  all  heard  of  the  nobleman  that  went 
around  the  country  playing  a  barrel-organ  for  a  wager. 
It  was  mad  enough;  but  it  was  a  freak,  and  the  fellow. 


48  LISHEEN 

I  believe,  did  it.  But  to  go  down  to  a  thatched  cabin, 
under  smoky  rafters,  to  wear  frieze  and  hobnailed  boots, 
to  live  on  potatoes  and  buttermilk  — " 

"Why,  I  heard  you  say  an  hour  ago,"  interrupted 
Maxwell,  "that  the  farmers  were  better  off  than  ourselves 
—  that  they  lived  better,  that  their  wives  and  daughters 
dressed  better  than  ours,  that  they  had  pianos  and  pictures, 
etc.  If  that  be  so,  where  is  the  great  sacrifice  in  going 
amongst  them  and  enjoying  all  this  luxury?" 

Outram  laughed  loud  at  this  discomfiture,  but  imme- 
diately said: 

"Look  here.  Maxwell!  These  fellows  are  giaours  — 
infidels!  "Why  not  take  up  a  bet  like  the  gentleman 
organ-grinder?  It  will  be  hard  on  you,  I  know;  but 
then  you  are  full  of  this  magnificent  idea.  Come!  I'll 
wager  what  you  please  that  you  won't  go  down  to  Cork 
or  Kerry  and  live  as  a  peasant  or  labourer  for  twelve 
months,  or  for  six,  or  for  three!" 

The  gentlemen  crowded  around  the  fireplace. 

"I  should  need  a  higher  motive  than  a  wretched  money 
bet  to  do  such  a  thing,"  said  Maxwell.  "I  should  hope 
that  the  little  force,  or  energy,  or  life,  whatever  you  call 
it,  that  the  Lord  has  given  me,  might  be  well  spent  during 
my  short  sojourn  here;  and  that  there  is  something  some- 
what nobler  than  fox-hunting,  claret-drinking,  and  evict- 
ing. I  say  that  the  man  who  will  lift  up  his  countrymen 
from  the  condition  of  serfdom,  to  which  centuries  of  oppres- 
sion and  foul  wrong  have  reduced  them,  would  be  more  of 
a  nobleman  than  if  he  had  fifty  crests  and  coats-of-arms ; 
and  if  I  thought  I  dared,  or  could  do  it,  I  would  step  down 
at  once  from  the  classes  and  join  my  lot  with  the  people." 


A  TOLSTOI  DEBATE  49 

"Then,  why  not  do  so?"  said  Outram,  watching  him 
keenly. 

"Why  not?"  echoed  Maxwell,  studying  the  pattern  on 
the  hearth-rug.     "Why  not?" 

"What  d d  rot !"  cried  a  magistrate.     "  By  Heavens, 

Maxwell,  if  you  thought  of  such  a  thing,  I'd  commit  you 
to  Dundrum  at  once." 

"You  don't  know  the  stuff  of  which  Maxwell  is  made!" 
said  Outram,  twirling  his  opal  ring  around  his  finger. 

The  gesture  caught  Maxwell's  eye. 

"Look  here,  Outram,"  he  said.  "Here's  a  bargain, 
not  a  bet.  Give  me  that  ring  for  twelve  months;  and  for 
twelve  months  I  shall  go  as  a  farm  labourer  into  Cork  or 
Kerry." 

Outram  hesitated.  The  other  gentlemeji  laughed,  and 
began  to  chaff  him. 

"A  fair  offer,  by  Jove." 

"Come,  Outram,  are  the  tables  turned  against  you?" 

"  'Twill  be  the  talk  of  every  club  in  Dublin  to-morrow, 
Outram.     You  might  as  well  relinquish  the  bauble." 

Outram  went  over  to  the  window,  and  gently  disen- 
gaged the  ring  from  his  finger.  He  returned  holding  it 
aloft. 

"You're  afraid,  I  see,  MaxvvTll,"  he  said.  "You  don't 
trust  the  noblest  peasantry  in  the  world.  You  need  a 
talisman,  and  you  are  right.  Here  it  is!  The  joke  is  too 
good  a  one  to  be  lost.  Gentlemen,  I  call  you  as  witnesses 
that  Maxwell  has  engaged  to  go  for  twelve  months  as  a 
farm  labourer  into  Cork  or  Kerry.  We'll  make  no  con- 
ditions. We  can  trust  his  honour.  If  he  comes  back 
alive,  he  can  take  his  revenge  by  writing  a  book." 
4 


50  LISIIEEN 

Maxwell  twisted  the  ring  slowly  on  to  the  third  finger 
of  his  right  hand  and  then  left  the  room. 

"How  do  you  know  he'll  keep  his  engagement?"  asked 
one  of  the  gentlemen  of  Outram.  "He  can  evade  it  in  a 
hundred  ways!" 

'"Tis  all  right,"  said  Outram.  "I  know  what  is  in  his 
mind.  He  has  been  poisoned  by  reading  all  kinds  of 
rubbish  from  Carlyle,  Spencer,  and  the  rest.  There  are 
a  good  many  of  his  class  in  Oxford  and  London  —  Chris- 
tian Socialists  they  call  themselves;  and  Maxwell  has  an 
ambition  to  introduce  something  of  the  rot  here.  He'll 
be  pretty  tired  of  it  in  twelve  months;  and  there  won't 
be  a  more  'felonious  landlord'  in  the  club  then." 

"I  heard  he  was  engaged  to  Major  Willoughby's 
daughter,"  said  the  other.  "What  will  the  lady  think  of 
this?" 

"I  am  of  opinion  that  Maxwell's  vagaries  have  ceased 
to  trouble  Miss  Willoughby,"  said  Outram. 

And  so,  indeed,  it  was. 


CHAPTER  V 


A   NEW  HAND 


No  sooner  had  Bob  Maxwell  taken  the  plunge  than  he 
began  to  realize  the  consequences.  The  ideas  that  had 
been  slowly  germinating  in  his  mind  for  years  had  sud- 
denly blossomed  into  a  flower  of  fancy  that  might  be 
poisonous,  and  a  fruit  that  would  certainly  be  very  bitter. 
He  began  to  think,  as  he  sat  by  his  solitary  fireplace,  that 
he  had  made  a  mistake.  Why  should  he  separate  him- 
self from  his  class?  Who  called  him  to  be  a  martyr  for 
principle?  Why  should  he  alone  select  the  heroic, 
which,  dreadful  thought!  would,  or  might,  end  in  the 
ridiculous?  The  age  was  not  heroic.  The  age  was  self- 
centred,  self-seeking,  self-satisfied.  Men  did  not  under- 
stand these  things  nowadays.  All  had  come  down  to  a 
common  level  of  meanness,  duplicity,  cunning,  cruelty. 
No  man  dreamed  of  self-sacrifice,  or  the  immolation  of 
great  possibilities  and  great  hopes  on  the  altar  of  Duty. 
The  Greek  spirit  had  vanished;  the  Christian  spirit  had 
followed.  He  alone  would  attempt  the  impossible;  and 
come  back,  dubbed  a  Quixote,  a  fool,  a  dreamer,  a  failure, 
for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

And  then?  Maxwell  was  not  oblivious  of  the  hard- 
ships of  the  task  he  had  assumed.  He  knew  well  what 
it  was  to  sleep  on  coarse  beds,  to  eat  poor  food,  to  work 
hard,  to  be  exposed  to  the  weather,  and,  above  all,  to  be 
compelled  to  associate  with  people  who  had  not  an  idea 

51 


52  LISHEEN 

beyond  their  wants,  their  struggles,  and  their  trials. 
"Not  sordid  lives,  but  squalid  lives  are  theirs,"  he  thought, 
"and  how  can  I  participate  therein?" 

"And  then?  There's  no  drawing  back,  once  the  step 
is  taken.  I  must  pursue  it  to  the  end.  And  this  means 
ostracism  from  my  own  class,  suspicion  from  those  with 
whom  I  am  going  to  associate,  union  with  rabid  politicians, 
prosecutions  probably,  and  imprisonment.  Yes ;  the  pros- 
pect is  not  brilliant.  I  am  coveting  a  martrydom;  and  I 
mistake  much  the  temper  of  that  waspish,  stinging,  aggres- 
sive thing,  called  man,  if  he  does  not  make  me  suffer." 

Maxwell  stood  up  and  walked  along  the  carpet  that 
edged  his  library.  This  meditation  had  unnerved  him. 
He  felt  himself  shivering  on  the  bank.  He  needed  a 
tonic;  and,  instead  of  the  sideboard,  he  sought  his  books. 
They  were  not  far  to  seek;  nor  had  he  to  look  long,  until 
words  spoke  to  him,  like  tongues  of  Pentecost  —  great, 
true,  flaming  words,  bidding  him  obey  the  God  within 
him,  and  not  the  cackling  idols  of  the  market-place; 
and  sternly  ordering  him  onward  on  the  path  of  Duty,  no 
matter  how  tempests  howled  and  winds  raved,  and  pitfalls 
yawned,  and  the  loud  laughter  of  fools  and  knaves  echoed 
from  club  and  drawing-room,  from  newspaper  or  letter, 
from  friends  and  foes  across  his  way. 

But  failure?  What  matter?  Everything  is  failure. 
All  that  the  world  holds  of  its  best  is  writ  large  in  failure. 
It  is  not  a  question  of  success,  or  non-success.  It  is  a 
question  of  Duty  —  to  go  forward  and  see  the  end ! 

"  Thus,  I  had  so  long  suffered  in  this  quest, 
Heard  failure  prophesied  so  oft,  been  writ 
So  many  times  among  '  The  Band  ' —  to  wit, 


A  NEW  HAND  53 

The  Knights  who  to  the  Dark  Tower's  search  addressed 
Their  steps  —  that  just  to  fail  as  they,  seemed  best, 
And  all  the  doubt  was  now  —  should  I  be  fit  ?  " 

Every  word  of  sage  or  poet,  philosopher  and  economist 
in  this  age  of  greed  and  selfishness  pointed  in  but  one 
direction.     It  clenched  the  doubts  of  Maxwell. 

Some  few  weeks  later,  a  weary,  drooped,  travel-stained 
figure  came  slowly  up  the  boreen  that  led  to  Owen 
McAuliffe's  house  at  Lisheen.  It  was  an  autumn  after- 
noon; and  everyone  about  the  place  was  in  the  fields, 
picking  the  potatoes  and  flinging  them  into  large  pits 
for  safety  against  the  November  rains.  The  old  woman, 
the  vanithee,  was  alone  in  the  kitchen,  preparing  the 
evening  meal.  A  brood  of  chickens,  clacking  noisily 
after  the  maternal  hen,  were  busy  picking  up  from  the 
earthen  floor  scraps  of  potatoes  and  grains  of  Indian  meal. 
A  huge  collie  lay  coiled  asleep  under  the  kitchen  table. 
At  the  noise  of  a  strange  footstep,  he  roused  himself  lazily, 
then  suddenly  assumed  the  defence  of  the  place,  and 
barked  furiously  at  the  intruder.  The  latter,  unheeding, 
came  slowly  and  painfully  across  the  straw- covered  yard, 
and  entered  the  house. 

A  professional  beggar  would  have  said,  in  the  country 
fashion:  "God  save  you!" 

And  would  have  been  answered : "  God  save  you  kindly !" 

But  this  poor  fellow  sank  wearily  into  a  chair,  and 
bowed  his  head  between  his  knees.  The  dog  ceased 
barking;  and  the  old  woman,  coming  over,  said  kindly: 

"  You're  tired,  me  poor  bhoy !" 

"Tired  and  sick  and  hungry,"  said  the  man,  in  an 


54  LISHEEN 

English  accent.  "'Tis  a  weary  load  I  have  taken 
up!" 

"Well,  thin,"  said  the  old  woman,  "you  must  rest 
here,  me  poor  bhoy;  and  sure  'tis  no  great  job  to  hunt 
away  the  hunger  and  the  thirst." 

Saying  this,  she  cut  a  huge  slice  of  a  griddle  cake,  and 
brought  it  over  with  a  porringer  of  milk  to  the  wayfarer. 
He  ate  and  drank  eagerly,  almost  ravenously.  It  revived 
him,  and  he  said  in  a  brighter  way: 

"That's  the  only  food  I  have  had  for  twenty-four 
hours." 

"Well,  thin,"  said  the  old  woman,  "the  people  must  be 
gettin'  hard-hearted  intirely,  whin  they  refused  a  bite  or 
sup  to  a  dacent-looking  bhoy  like  you." 

"It  wasn't  their  fault,"  said  the  man.  "It  was  my 
own.  I  asked  for  work,  work;  and  when  that  could  not 
be  had,  I  was  ashamed  to  ask  for  bread." 

"Faith,  thin,  you  must  be  new  to  the  road,"  said  the 
vanithee.  "Because  'tisn't  much  shame  the  travellers 
have  nowadays!" 

"I  never  was  from  home  before,"  said  the  man,  "and  I 
am  not  accustomed  to  hardship.  If  I  had  known  all  — 
but  there's  no  use  in  complaining!  But  the  burden  I 
took  up  was  too  much  for  my  strength!" 

The  instinctive  delicacy  of  the  Irish  mind  forbade 
her  questioning  him  further.  She  went  about  her  house- 
hold work,  from  time  to  time  casting  a  curious  glance  at 
the  visitor.  He  sat  in  the  low  sugan  chair,  and  stared  out 
through  the  open  door  in  a  kind  of  reverie,  which  was  only 
broken  when  the  two  men  and  Debbie,  well  tired  and 
dirty  after  the  day's  rough  work,  came  in.     They  merely 


A  NEW  HAND  55 

glanced  at  the  stranger,  as  they  put  aside  their  tools;  but 
the  old  man  said  in  the  usual  way: 

"God  save  you!" 

Maxwell,  for  it  was  he,  did  not  know  what  to  reply,  but 
stood  up  as  if  to  go. 

"Ye  needn't  be  in  such  a  hurry,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"You  had  a  long  day's  tramp,  an'  you  want  a  night's  rest. 
Stay  where  you  are  for  to-night;  an'  you'll  be  betther  able 
for  the  road  to-morrow." 

Maxwell  seemed  to  hesitate,  as  the  men  said  nothing, 
but  sat  down  silently  to  the  evening  meal. 

"Come  over,  and  give  us  a  hand  here,"  said  Owen 
McAuliffe,  pointing  to  the  huge  pile  of  smoking  potatoes. 
"Maybe  you  could  lend  us  a  hand  elsewhere  to-morrow." 

"Your  good  wife  has  already  given  me  food,"  said  Max- 
well; "if  you  could  let  me  have  work,  I  would  take  it  as  a 
favour." 

"Well,  we'll  thry,"  said  Owen.  "But  I'm  thinking 
that  your  white  hand  is  more  used  to  the  pen  than  the 
plough. 

"A  hand  that's  willing  to  work  can  do  work  if  it  only 
gets  fair  play,"  answered  Maxwell. 

"Well  said,  me  bhoy,"  replied  the  old  man.  "Well, 
as  you  won't  ate,  pull  over  the  chair  to  the  lire,  and  have 
your  smoke." 

Marwell  began  to  roll  a  cigarette  mechanically,  as  he 
drew  up  the  straw  chair  near  the  open  hearth,  and  sat 
looking  in  a  dazed  way  at  the  red  ashes  and  charred 
timber  that  smouldered  there.  He  was  too  tired  and  too 
dispirited  to  feel  any  interest  in  the  place  or  people.  He 
knew  that  it  was  a  farmer's  house  of  the  poorer  class, 


56  LISHEEN 

such  as  he  had  seen,  day  by  day,  during  the  last  few 
weeks;  and  the  surroundings  and  details  were  not  inviting. 
It  was  poverty,  great  poverty,  accentuated  by  constant 
dread  of  the  greater  trial,  that  it  was  quite  within  the 
bounds  of  possibility  they  should  lose  even  that. 

He  listened  as  in  a  dream  to  the  slow  munching  of  po- 
tatoes and  the  swilling  of  new  milk  that  were  going  on 
quite  close  to  him.  He  had  not  even  curiosity  enough 
left  to  watch  the  young  daughter  of  the  house  as  she 
busied  herself  on  dish  and  platter,  setting  this  to  rights, 
and  placing  that  in  its  place  on  the  dresser,  and  tidying  up, 
in  a  deft,  silent  manner,  the  table  and  the  utensils  that 
were  soiled  after  the  men's  supper. 

It  was  only  when  Owen  McAuliffe  came  over  to  the 
hearthside,  and  sat  on  the  flagged  seat  near  the  hob,  and 
drew  out  his  black  pipe  and  began  to  smoke,  that  Max- 
well woke  up,  and  began  to  realize  his  position. 

"You're  out  of  a  job?"  said  the  old  man  after  a  time. 

"Yes,"  answered  Maxwell.  "I've  tramped  half  the 
country;  but  met  the  same  answer  everywhere!" 

"And  what  would  that  be  now?"  said  Owen. 

"Well,  they  wanted  hands  badly;  but  I  wouldn't  do. 
I  didn't  look  equal  to  hard  work,  and  they  had  nothing 
light  to  give  me." 

"They  needn't  be  so  pertickler,"  said  Owen.  "The 
deuce  a  much  work  they'll  get  out  of  any  labourer  now- 
adays. Whin  I  wos  a  bhoy,  we  thought  nothin'  of  takin' 
out  the  cart  in  the  morning  fasting,  and  thravelling  six 
or  seven  miles  to  the  mountain  bog,  and  fillin'  our  load 
of  turf,  and  comin'  back  agin  before  we  sot  down  to 
brekfus.     Manny  and  manny  a  time  I  thramped  thirteen 


A  NEW  HAND  57 

and  fourteen  miles  before  breakin'  me  fast.  But  you 
won't  get  youngsters  to  do  that  nowadays!" 

"I  suppose  they  have  not  the  strength  or  endurance!" 
said  Maxwell. 

"Thrue  for  you,  they  haven't,"  said  the  old  man. 
"But,"  he  continued,  as  the  idea  of  driving  a  bargain 
came  into  his  mind,  "  I  suppose  now,  as  you  are  so  delicate 
and  genteel-like,  you  wouldn't  be  expectin'  high  wages?" 

"I  expect  no  wages,"  said  Maxwell,  bluntly.  "I  have 
as  much  clothes  in  this  valise,"  he  pointed  to  a  port- 
manteau, once  very  handsome,  but  now  much  the  worse 
for  wear,  *'as  I  want  for  twelve  months,  and  I  have  no 
need  of  anything  but  the  food  and  shelter  every  son  of 
Adam  requires." 

"Well,  thin,"  said  the  old  man,  "I  won't  take  you  at 
your  word,  for  that  would  be  dhrivin'  a  hard  bargin,  and 
takin'  a  mane  advantage  of  you.  But  if  you  like  to  stay 
here  and  look  about  you,  you  can  be  of  some  little  use  to 
us  maybe,  an'  sure,  if  you  never  did  nothin',  we  won't 
begrudge  you  the  bite  and  the  sup." 

"I'm  extremely  obliged  to  you,"  said  Maxwell,  rising  up. 
"It's  the  first  word  of  welcome  I  have  had  since  I  set  — 
since  I  began  looking  for  work;  and  you  won't  find  me 
ungrateful.  But  I'm  dead  tired;  and  if  you  could  show 
me  where  I  might  rest  the  night,  to-morrow  we  could  talk 
things  over." 

Here  arose  a  little  trouble,  however;  a  trouble  which 
had  already  suggested  itself  to  the  women,  who  had  been 
engaged  in  an  anxious  debate  over  it.  There  were  but 
two  beds  in  the  only  room  that  served  as  parlour  and  bed- 
room —  one  of  these  was  occupied  by  Debbie,  the  other 


58  LISHEEN 

by  her  parents.  Pierce  invariably  slept  in  the  settle  bed 
in  the  kitchen.  Where  should  they  put  the  stranger? 
The  servant  boy,  when  they  had  such,  invariably  slept  in 
the  loft,  or  in  one  of  the  outhouses;  and  they  would  have 
promptly  relegated  the  newcomer  to  either  place;  but 
they  felt,  by  that  secret  but  infallible  instinct  that  charac- 
terizes women,  that  this  was  no  ordinary  tramp.  There 
was  a  something  about  him  that  told  them  how  much  he 
differed  from  average  wayfarers.  They  could  not  dream 
that  he  was  a  gentleman.  That  was  too  much  beyond 
the  reach  of  imagination;  but  they  concluded  he  w^as  some- 
one who  had  got  a  "let- down"  in  the  world,  and  needed 
additional  consideration. 

After  a  good  deal  of  debating,  they  decided  that 
Pierce  should  sleep  in  the  loft;  and  that  the  stranger 
should  have  the  settle  bed  in  the  kitchen.  The  settle 
was  a  long  box  with  a  lid  and  two  arm-rests  at  the  ex- 
tremities. It  was  used  during  the  day  as  a  seat,  which 
might  accommodate  four  or  five  persons.  At  night  the 
front  was  let  down  from  hinges,  the  lid  raised,  and,  lo! 
it  was  a  comfortable  bed. 

So  Maxwell  found  it,  when  the  family,  having  said  the 
Rosary,  and  remained  for  some  time  afterwards  in  silent 
prayer,  retired  for  the  night,  and  left  him  alone.  He  sat 
for  a  few  moments  meditatively  on  the  edge  of  the  im- 
provised bed,  watching  the  smouldering  embers  on  the 
hearth,  and  thinking,  thinking  into  what  a  sea  of  trouble 
he  had  plunged  himself.  Then  he  rolled  over  into  the 
blankets,  and  was  buried  at  once  in  a  deep  sleep. 

He  woke  refreshed  next  morning,  when  he  heard 
Pierce's  step  on  the  ladder,  rose  rapidly,  made  his  ablu- 


A  NEW   HAND  59 

tions  in  a  primitive  manner  outside  the  door  from  a  tin 
basin;  and,  drinking  in  deep  draughts  of  the  morning 
air,  he  set  out  with  the  young  man  to  commence  the  day's 
work. 

It  was  the  same  as  yesterday's.  Pierce  opened  with  his 
strong  arm  and  foot  the  drills  of  potatoes,  and  Alaxwell 
gathered  them  up  in  creels,  and  tossed  them  into  the  great 
pits  that  yawned  to  receive  them.  It  was  not  hard  work, 
but  the  constant  stooping  over  the  potatoes  made  his 
back  ache.  He  was  not  sorry  when  old  Owen  McAuliffe 
came  out,  and  after  watching  the  work  for  some  time  in 
silence  and  praising  the  potatoes  for  their  size  and  dryness, 
bade  the  two  young  men  come  in  to  breakfast. 

This  consisted  of  tea  and  home-made  bread  and  butter. 
The  keen  morning  air  and  the  exercise  had  sharpened 
Maxwell's  appetite,  and  he  was  astonished  at  the  manner 
in  which  he  stowed  away  junk  after  junk  of  heavy,  but 
wholesome,  bread,  that  a  month  ago  would  have  given 
him  dyspepsia  for  weeks.  Then,  without  an}-  delay, 
they  went  back  to  work  again;  Debbie  and  the  old  man 
accompanying  them. 

Maxwell,  although  ashamed  to  idle  even  one  moment 
in  the  company  of  such  industrious  workers,  had  time  to 
look  around  him.  He  found  that  this  farm  lay  on  the 
edge  of  a  low  spur  of  a  mountain,  that  stretched  back 
black  and  gloomy  in  the  gray  October  light.  Evidently, 
the  larger  portion  of  the  land  had  been  reclaimed  from 
bog  and  heather  at  the  cost  of  infinite  labour;  and  it  was 
quite  clear  it  lyould  revert  to  the  same  condition  again, 
if  the  redeeming  hand  of  man  were  once  lifted  from  it. 
Here  and  there,  tufts  of  furze  had  succeeded  in  eluding 


6o  LISHEEN 

the  vigilance  of  the  reclaimers,  and  the  soil  was  peaty  — 
not  the  deep,  rich  brown  mould  of  more  prosperous  farms. 
Far  around,  a  great  plain,  dotted  thickly  with  farmers' 
homesteads,  each  in  its  little  clump  of  trees,  stretched 
to  where  on  the  horizon  faintly-outlined  mountains 
bounded  the  view.  And  far  to  the  right  there  shone  or 
bickered  or  slept  the  broad  expanses  of  the  sea.  The 
district  was  clearly  congested;  and  the  vast  majority  of 
farms  were  of  about  the  same  extent  and  the  same  charac- 
ter as  that  in  which  Maxwell  now  worked.  The  land- 
scape was  not  inviting;  but  he  saw,  with  a  faint  thrill  of 
pleasure,  that  behind  him  was  the  black,  unsurveyed 
mountain  with  all  its  ravines  and  recesses,  such  as  those 
where  he  had  often  encamped  above  the  Lakes.  Here, 
at  least,  he  thought,  I  can  beat  a  retreat  sometimes; 
and,  alone,  think  over  the  problem  I  have  set  myself  to 
solve. 

He  worked  on  steadily  till  dinner  time  at  noon,  when 
they  were  called  in  by  Mrs.  McAulifiFe.  He  was  tired, 
and  his  limbs  ached  from  the  continuous  stooping;  but 
he  had  a  vigorous  appetite.  There  was  an  immense 
pile  of  potatoes  on  the  table  before  him  and  three  por- 
ringers of  milk.  He  saw  the  two  men  make  the  Sign  of 
the  Cross  over  the  food;  and  then  set  to  work  with  their 
nails  to  peel  the  potatoes.  He  attempted  the  same;  but 
the  hot  potatoes  burned  his  tender  fingers,  and  his  taste 
somehow  revolted  from  the  operation.  Debbie  saw  his 
embarrassment,  and  quickly  placed  a  black-handled 
knife  on  the  table  before  him.  But  he  managed  to  make 
a  splendid  meal.  He  could  never  have  believed  that 
potatoes  and  milk  could  be  so  appetizing. 


A  NEW  HAND  6i 

They  went  straight  from  dinner  to  work.  But  Max- 
well's back  ached  so  badly  that  he  said : 

"Look  here,  men.  I'm  not  shirking  work;  but,  you 
know,  I  am  not  used  to  it ;  and  my  back  is  almost  broken. 
I'll  beg  off  for  an  hour  or  two." 

"Av  coorse,  av  coorse,"  said  the  old  man.  "Sthroll 
up  the  fields  and  take  a  look  at  the  heifers.  You've  done 
enough  for  to-day." 

The  kindness  touched  Maxwell  deeply.  He  passed 
out  of  the  potato  iield,  and  was  instantly  treading  under 
foot  the  purple  blossoms  of  the  heather  he  loved  so  well. 
The  whole  mountain  was  covered  with  it,  except  in  a  few 
patches  here  and  there,  where  lean  cattle  were  feeding. 
He  went  up  and  up,  until  he  almost  reached  the  chine  of 
the  hill.  He  then  sat  down  on  a  deep  purple  bed  of 
fragrant  heather,  smoked  leisurely,  and  leisurely  looked 
out  over  the  country,  and  leisurely  considered  how  far 
further  he  could  carry  out  the  unweaving  of  the  great 
problem  he  had  so  rashly  undertaken  to  solve. 

Meanwhile  the  good  folks  amongst  whom  he  was  now 
thrown  were  busy  conjecturing  the  history,  position,  and 
future  of  their  strange  visitor.  All  kinds  of  clever  specu- 
lations ran  in  their  heads  to  account  for  such  a  singular 
apparition  among  them.  But  the  final  conclusion  at 
which  the  men  arrived  was,  that  Maxwell  was  a  deserter 
from  the  army  and  on  the  nm.  This  view  Debbie  strenu- 
ously contradicted.  Her  woman's  wit  saw  farther  than 
masculine  reasoning.  She  knew  that  there  was  some- 
thing about  Maxwell  that  was  quite  irreconcilable  with 
the  idea  that  he  was,  or  had  been,  a  common  soldier,  and 
she  was  strengthened  in  her  conviction  by  watching  and 


62  LISHEEN 

noticing  his  linen,  which  was  of  an  ahogethcr  superior 
kind.  But  what  he  was,  how  his  fates  had  led  him 
hither,  she  could  not  conjecture.  He  was  a  mystery; 
and  it  increased  tenfold  the  interest  that  surrounded 
him.  Then  once  the  idea  struck  her  that  he  was  a  crimi- 
nal on  the  run  from  justice,  who  was  diving  into  all  kinds 
of  holes  and  corners  to  escape  the  Argus  eyes  of  the  law. 
It  lessened  her  interest  in  him,  although  she  tried  to  banish 
the  thought  and  invest  him  with  the  dignity  of  a  gentle- 
man in  disguise. 


CHAPTER  VI 

"in  the  sweat  of  thy  brow" 

The  next  few  days  were  days  of  monotonous  labour  for 
Maxwell.  To  rise  at  six,  be  at  work  at  half-past  six, 
to  breakfast  at  eight  o'clock,  dine  at  twelve,  and  sup  at 
seven,  filling  in  the  intervals  with  steady,  unremitting 
toil,  this  was  each  day's  programme.  To  lessen,  or 
rather  to  vary  his  employment,  he  was  asked  to  take  a 
spade  and  dig  the  lumpers  out  of  the  drills.  He  tried, 
but  found  this  as  hard  work  as  picking  them  up  and  filling 
the  creels.  And,  unfortunately,  he  sliced  with  the  sharp 
edge  of  the  spade  so  many  potatoes  that  the  old  man 
said : 

"This  isn't  the  time  for  skeolans,^  me  boy.  You'll  be  a 
great  hand  intirely  when  we're  settin'  the  praties  in  the 
spring." 

At  last  he  was  allowed  free  play  to  do  what  he  liked 
about  the  farm.  It  was  quite  clear  he  was  not  equal  to 
much  hard  work;  and  as  there  was  no  stipulation  about 
wages,  and  he  seemed  willing  to  be  useful,  he  was  invited 
to  do  as  he  pleased. 

'"Tis  wonderful,"  said  the  old  man,  "how  handy  thim 
sojers  are.     They're  thrained  to  everythin'  a'most." 

"You'll  find  he's  no  sojer,"  said  Debbie,  almost  sulkily. 

"Wisha,   what   else   could  he  be?"   said   her  father. 

*  Potatoes  sliced  in  quarters  or  halves  for  seed. 
f>3 


64  LISHEEN 

"Shure,  he  won't  tell  his  name  even;  and  he  wanted  to 
know  how  far  away  were  the  police!" 

"Well,  'tis  no  business  of  ours,  I  suppose,"  said  Debbie, 
"but  he's  no  desarter,  whatever  else  he  is." 

"You'll  see  how  handy  he  is  about  horses,"  replied  her 
father,  clinging  to  his  idea.  "I  saw  him  watchin'  the 
chestnut  yesterday;  and,  faix,  he  seemed  to  know  the  pints 
of  a  horse  as  well  as  Sims  of  Thralee." 

"Well,  he's  quiet  and  asy-spoken  enough,"  said  Pierry. 
"An'  for  a  bhoy  who  made  no  bargain  about  wages,  he 
seems  anxious  enough  for  the  work." 

On  the  whole,  these  were  favourable  opinions  enough 
about  our  young  nonconformist,  who  had  essayed  a  trying 
task,  and  was  sinking  beneath  the  burden,  when  a  sudden 
inspiration  loomed  up  on  his  imagination  from  some  far, 
invisible  depths,  and  turned  his  cloud  of  despair  into  a 
pillar  glowing  with  the  fire  and  light  of  hope  and  great 
promise. 

It  was  on  a  Sunday  morning  a  week  or  two  after  his 
introduction  to  this  humble  family,  when  he  lay  on  a  bed 
of  grass  and  heather  up  there  on  the  breast  of  the  black 
mountain  of  Croughna-Cree.  The  family  had  gone  to 
Mass  three  miles  away;  and  although  it  was  the  custom 
for  one  to  remain  at  home  to  guard  the  house  and  premises, 
they  committed  the  care  of  the  place,  with  singular  con- 
fidence, to  Maxwell.  Pierry  had  volunteered  to  stay  at 
home.  He  was  the  doubting  Thomas.  He  thought  it 
singularly  imprudent  to  leave  the  whole  place  in  the  hands 
of  a  perfect  stranger,  and  one  with  the  possibly  evil  record 
of  a  deserter  from  the  army.  Debbie  had  again  insisted 
that  Maxwell  was  nothing  of  the  kind;  and,  as  it  was 


"IN   THE   SWEAT   OF   THY  BROW"  65 

broadly  hinted  that  Pierry's  devotion  was  so  tenuous  that 
he  only  sought  an  excuse  for  remaining  away  from  Mass, 
his  pride  was  stung,  and  he  cried: 

"Very  well!  But  the  throuble  be  on  yereselves  and  not 
on  me!" 

And  so  Maxwell,  who,  it  was  charitably  surmised,  "had 
no  religion,"  was  allowed  to  assume  control  of  Lisheen 
for  two  or  three  hours  on  that  Sunday. 

"You  needn't  stick  yourself  in  the  kitchen,"  said  the 
old  man,  going  out.  "Take  the  kay  in  your  pocket,  and 
lave  Snap  loose;  and  you  can  go  up  and  see  after  the 
heifers,  and  keep  thim  blagard  crows  away  from  the 
drills." 

So  Maxwell  went  up  into  the  mountains,  like  any 
prophet  of  the  Lord,  to  think  earnestly,  and  listen,  if  so 
it  might  be,  to  any  voices  from  within  or  without,  that 
would  speak  to  him,  and  point  out  the  way  in  which  he 
should  walk.  For  he  felt,  in  spite  of  deep  heart-sinkings 
and  doubts,  that  he  had  assumed  a  certain  noble  and 
spiritual  calling,  far,  far  removed  from  the  petrified  uni- 
formity of  an  existence  which  his  class  traditions  and 
teachings  would  have  marked  out  for  him,  but  which  he 
now  regarded  with  a  certain  loathing  that  became  almost 
physical  in  its  intensity.  For  he  began  to  reflect,  there 
in  the  autumnal  afternoon,  on  the  fearful  waste  of  time 
and  life  that  would  have  been  his  inevitable  lot  had  he 
remained  amongst  his  class,  and  followed  its  traditions. 
"Parasites,"  he  thought,  "fattening  on  the  vitals  of  a  race 
that  could  not  shake  them  aside,  drawing  a  life-sustenance 
and  a  pleasure-sustenance  from  starving  wretches,  who  had 
to  labour  night  and  day  to  ward  off  starvation!  Drones 
5 


66  LISHEEN 

in  a  busy  beehive,  eating  a  honey  that  they  did  not  make, 
and  drinking  a  nectar  they  did  not  distil!  Plutocrats, 
not  aristocrats  —  they  would  shame  the  name  —  for  who 
are  the  best,  but  they  who,  consecrated  to  great  work,  draw 
out  the  slender  threads  and  filaments  of  life,  and  weave 
them  into  noble  textures  and  tapestries  for  their  race?" 
And  then  his  thoughts  turned  suddenly  downwards  to 
these  toiling  and  labouring  serfs,  and  he  thought  how 
noble,  amidst  their  perpetual  poverty,  were  their  laborious 
and  austere  lives.  Even  from  a  purely  physical  standpoint, 
he  felt  ashamed  of  himself.  He  had  been  an  athlete  in 
Trinity,  winning  prizes  at  the  College  sports,  until  the 
doctors  had  warned  him  aside;  and  see  how  swiftly  he 
collapsed  when  a  little  daily  toil  was  placed  on  his  shoul- 
ders. And  these  peasants!  How  easily,  how  smoothly, 
how  deftly,  they  plied  hand  and  nerve  and  sinew  and 
muscle  from  dawn  to  dark,  never  tired,  never  fatigued, 
their  whole  physical  system  moving  rhythmically  at  the 
divine  call  of  labour.  He  had  noticed  how  firm  were 
their  muscles,  how  broad  their  wrists,  and  how  the  muscles 
and  tendons  seemed  to  strain  with  the  strength  of  whip- 
cord when  unusual  pressure  was  placed  on  them.  And 
how  beautifully  clean  they  were!  Not  a  single  scab  or 
speck  on  their  spotless  skins.  Not  a  trace  of  dust  or 
dandriff  in  their  hair.  Their  hands  were  hardened  and 
enamelled  by  toil,  their  bodies  were  washed  in  sweat;  but 
they  were  kept  sweet  and  wholesome  and  fragrant  by  that 
daily  ablution,  by  the  free  play  of  the  pure  mountain  air, 
and  the  immaculate  sanctity  of  their  lives.  Compared 
with  many  whom  he  had  known,  that  peasant  boy  was 
"Hyperion  to  a  Satyr";  and  compared  even  with  Queen 


"IN   THE   SWEAT   OF  THY   BROW"  67 

Mab,  that  mountain  girl  was  an  Amazon  of  health  and 
generous  vitality.  "Blessed  is  work!"  thought  Max^vell. 
"Blessed  is  the  sentence:  'In  the  sweat  of  thy  brow  shalt 
thou  labour  all  the  days  of  thy  life!'" 

But  —  and  then  his  heart  sank  within  him  —  what 
chance  had  he  to  compete  with  these  athletes  of  Nature, 
and  take  up  duties  now,  to  which  he  should  have  been 
indurated  from  childhood?  How  can  the  poodle  run 
with  the  greyhound;  or  the  sloth  wrestle  with  the  lion? 
Nay;  it  was  madness!  He  should  have  kept  to  his  own 
class,  lived  as  they  did,  and  died  as  they  did!  No,  no; 
that  will  never  do.  He  cannot  admit  the  ignoble  thought. 
He  has  set  out  on  a  mission,  and  he  must  accomplish  it. 
But  how?  His  cardinal  principle  was  to  get  a  fulcrum 
within  the  lives  of  these  peasants,  wherewith  to  raise  them, 
and  place  them  on  some  higher  plane.  But,  supposing 
they  were  already  on  a  plane  higher  than  his  own,  and  in 
the  physical  department  they  certainly  were,  what  then? 
He  dared  not  touch  the  spiritual;  and  what  remained? 
The  answer  was,  the  social  and  intellectual  life  of  the 
people,  the  sweetness  and  the  light,  that  would  help  them 
to  bear  with  greater  equanimity  the  inequalities  of  life, 
and  the  hardships  incident  to  their  condition.  But  how  ? 
This  seems  an  impossibility.  He  has  undertaken  a  Her- 
culean task,  without  the  strength  of  Hercules.  And  he 
shall  be  defeated.  And  then,  he  must  go  back  to  his  own 
tribe  to  be  for  evermore  a  butt  and  a  jest  for  his  Quixotism. 
See  Tolstoi,  his  patron  saint,  is  laughed  at,  his  motives 
misinterpreted,  his  self-denial  contradicted,  his  theories 
ridiculed.  He  will  go  down  to  posterity  as  a  madman,  a 
voluptuary  masquerading  under  the  guise  of  a  martyr, 


68  LISHEEN 

a  teacher  of  principles  he  dared  not  practise  —  an  idealist, 
carrying  his  sparks  of  inspiration  into  a  powder-magazine, 
a  fool  to  be  hoisted  with  his  own  petard!  And  thou,  thou, 
here  in  this  Irish  Nebelwelt,  thou  shalt  be  the  prophet  and 
pioneer?  No;  only  the  Erztrdumer  —  the  Arch- Dreamer! 
Then  the  flash  of  illumination  came. 

"At  least  I  have  sacrificed  myself  for  an  idea.  If  I 
cannot  be  the  salt  of  savour  to  others,  at  least  I  myself 
shall  not  rot." 

He  went  down  from  the  mountain.  The  family  had 
come  back,  all  but  Debbie,  who  had  lingered  behind 
talking  with  the  neighbours.  The  old  woman  was  bending 
over  the  huge  pot  that  hung  from  the  black  iron  frame- 
work above  the  hearth.  She  was  stirring  up  a  great 
savoury  mess  of  pork  and  cabbage,  whilst  in  another  pot 
the  potatoes  were  simmering.  The  men,  father  and  son, 
were  conversing  in  the  yard.  The  young  man,  slightly 
rebellious  against  circumstances,  was  making  angry  com- 
ments on  the  sermon.  Two  others,  neighbours,  were 
listening. 

"I  can't  stand  this,"  said  Pierry.  '"Tis  all  patience! 
patience!  and  thrust  in  God.  Betther  for  us  thrust  in  our 
own  right  arrums.  'The  blackest  hour  is  before  the 
dawn!'  Thin,  the  dawn  must  be  near,  because  the  hour 
is  black  enough  now!  Why  don't  the  prieshts  lade  us? 
Why  don't  they  tell  us:  Rise  up  like  min,  and  don't  lie 
undher  like  whipped  puppies — ?" 

"Because  they  see  farther  than  you,"  said  his  father. 
"They  have  the  ejucation  that  you  haven't;  and  they  have 
the  Sperrit  of  God  guidin'  them." 

"Begobs,  thin,"  said  Pierry,  "I  wish  to  God  they'd  see 


"IN  THE  SWEAT   OF  THY  BROW"  69 

as  far  as  to-morrow;  and  tell  us  what  we  are  to  do,  whin 
these  —  bailiffs  are  upon  us." 

"Lave  to-morrow  look  out  for  itself,"  said  the  old  man. 
"God  will  be  there  to-morrow  as  well  as  to-day." 

"A  piece  of  lead,  an'  a  grain  of  powdher — "  said 
Pierry,  but  his  father  whispered:  "Whist!"  as  Maxwell 
came  into  the  yard. 

The  latter  noticed  the  sudden  silence,  but  said  nothing. 
The  three  young  men  slunk  silently  away.  The  old  man 
said: 

"Nothin'  unusual  turned  up,  I  suppose?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Maxwell,  who  was  somewhat  disturbed 
by  the  apparent  suspicion  with  which  he  was  regarded. 

"You  said  your  own  prayers  in  your  own  way,  I  sup- 
pose?" said  the  old  man. 

"I  thought  a  good  deal,"  said  Maxwell.  "Sometimes, 
thinking  is  praying." 

"Thrue  for  you,"  said  the  old  man.  "Just  as  I  sup- 
pose working  is  praying,  as  the  priesht  sometimes  tell  us!" 

"And  your  priest  is  right,"  said  Maxwell,  earnestly. 
"The  old  monks  have  left  the  motto,  Laborare  est  orare, 
to  labour  is  to  pray!" 

They  sat  down  to  the  Sunday  dinner.  Pierry's  absence 
was  not  noticed.  On  Sundays  young  men  went  away 
from  home  very  often  to  a  hurling  match,  or  a  dance,  and 
took  pot-luck  with  the  neighbours.  The  meal  proceeded 
in  silence;  the  old  man  was  sunk  in  his  own  reflections. 
Maxwell  was  disturbed.  Clearly,  from  what  he  had  heard 
when  he  came  into  the  yard,  he  was  amongst  these  people, 
but  not  of  them.  They  were  evidently  in  trouble,  and 
they  could  not  confide  in  him.     He  had  no  right  to  com- 


70  LKHEEN 

plain,  of  course,  but  if  this  barrier  of  distrust  was  not 
broken  down,  his  mission  would  remain  unfulfilled.  And 
yet  he  was  in  a  new  country;  and  a  single  false  step  would, 
he  knew,  be  fatal.  It  was  a  sudden  problem,  and  Max- 
well had  experience  enough  to  know  that  he  must  not  be 
precipitate.  And  yet  the  question  would  force  itself  upon 
him;  should  he  await  the  development  of  events,  or  antici- 
pate them  by  inquiries?  Prudence  pointed  to  the  first 
course.  But,  as  he  silently  ate  his  dinner,  he  reflected: 
These  people  took  me  in,  a  stranger,  broke  bread  with 
me,  made  no  hard  stipulation  with  me;  a  great  cloud  is 
looming  over  them,  and  I  — 

He  pushed  aside  the  plate  and  porringer,  and  said,  with 
a  steady  gaze  at  the  old  man: 

"You're  in  trouble,  I  understand!" 

The  old  man  started  a  little,  laid  down  his  knife  and 
fork,  and  said  hesitatingly: 

"A  little.  Sure,  we're  always  in  throuble,  welcome  be 
the  will  of  God." 

The  mother,  sitting  by  the  hearth,  coughed  slightly. 
Debbie  looked  anxious. 

"I  have  no  right,"  said  Maxwell,  "to  intrude  upon  your 
secrets;  but  if  I  can  help  you  in  any  way,  you  may  com- 
mand me." 

"We're  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Owen  McAuliffe. 
"But  sure,  we've  no  right  to  put  our  throubles  upon 
sthrange  shoulders  — " 

"I  might  be  able  to  see  farther  than  you,"  said  Maxwell, 
who  was  now  very  anxious  to  help  these  poor  people. 
"I've  seen  a  bit  of  the  world,  and  had  some  experience 
of  trouble  myself." 


"IN  THE  SWEAT  OF  THY  BROW"       71 

"Well,  thin,  you're  young  to  have  throuble,"  said  the 
old  man.  "But  sure  there  can  be  no  harrum  in  telling 
you  what  all  the  parish  knows.  We  owe  a  year's  rent, 
an'  haven't  the  manes  to  pay  it.  The  agent  has  took  out 
a  decree  aginst  us;  and  we  don't  know  the  minute  the 
bailiffs  will  be  upon  us  and  seize  all  we  have." 

"That's  hard  lines,"  said  Maxwell,  sympathetically. 
"But  what  do  you  propose  to  do?" 

"There's  the  throuble,"  said  the  old  man,  anxiously. 
"Pierry  and  the  bhoys  wants  to  meet  the  bailiffs  wanst 
and  forever  and  have  it  out  wid  them — " 

"You  mean  to  resist?"  asked  Maxwell,  anxiously. 

"Yes;  to  fight  it  out  wid  them;  and  let  the  case  go 
before  the  counthry." 

"That  means  bloodshed  and  imprisonment,"  said 
Maxwell. 

"Yes;  and  thin  —  av  coorse,  Pierry  won't  shtay  in  the 
counthry.  He'll  go  to  America,  whin  he  comes  out  of 
gaol!" 

This  looked  bad.  It  meant  heavy  trial  on  this  poor 
family,  and  the  final  disruption  of  their  home.  Maxwell 
•leaned  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  began  to  think.  After 
some  time,  he  asked  anxiously: 

"Is  there  no  alternative?  I  mean,  can  nothing  else  be 
done?" 

" Nothing,"  said  the  old  man,  "except  to  clear  the  farm." 

"You  mean  to  remove  the  cattle  and  everything  else 
that  might  be  saleable?" 

"Yes;  that's  just  it.  And  that's  what  we  want,  as  it  is 
the  aisiest  way  out  of  the  throuble." 

"But  then  they'll  evict  you,"  said  Maxwell. 


72  LISHEEN 

"No,"  said  the  old  man.  "Because,  if  they  did,  they'd 
lose  everythin'  as  well  as  we  ourselves." 

"And  why  not  clear  the  farm  then,  as  you  say?  It  will 
stop  bloodshed,  and  avert  serious  trouble  from  your 
home." 

"Thrue  for  you,  but  Pierry  and  the  bhoys  won't  have 
it.     They  want  to  have  it  out  wanst  and  forever." 

Here  was  a  difficulty  that  put  Maxwell  at  his  wits' 
ends  to  solve.  Ruin  was  before  this  poor  family  —  abso- 
lute, irretrievable  ruin.  He  felt  deeply  for  them.  The 
great  problem  of  the  land  was  presented  to  his  eyes  naked 
to  be  solved.  And  he  saw  that  his  own  little  programme 
would  come  to  a  summary  end  with  the  ruin  of  this  little 
household.  He  could  not  commence  to  work  out  the 
problem  elsewhere  again. 

After  a  long  pause  he  said: 

"By  the  way,  how  much  is  due?  What  will  satisfy  the 
agent?" 

"We  owe  him  twelve  pounds,"  said  the  old  man.  "I 
carried  in  seven  pounds  to  Thralee  to  him.  'Twas  all  I 
could  gather.  I  axed  him  lave  us  alone  till  we  sould  the 
hay  and  the  handful  of  oats.  He  thrun  the  seven  notes 
in  me  face,  and  the  nixt  day  I  had  an  attorney's  letter, 
with  costs.  I  wouldn't  mind,"  he  continued,  "but  we 
lost  a  couple  of  calves  in  the  spring;  and  a  young  colt, 
which  we  expected  would  make  the  rint  for  us." 

"Look  here,"  said  Maxwell  with  sudden  determination, 
"  we  must  prevent  violence  at  any  cost.     Where  is  Pierry  ? ' ' 

"Gone  down  to  the  dance,  or  perhaps  to  the  forge  to 
gather  the  bhoys  for  the  morning,"  replied  the  old  man. 

"Then  you  and  I  will  clear  the  farm,"  said  Maxwell. 


"IN  THE   SWEAT  OF  THY  BROW"  73 

"Begobs,  you're  a  man,"  said  the  old  man,  enthusiasti- 
cally, and  the  mother  said:  "God  bless  you!"  and  Debbie 
said  nothing,  but  looked  as  if  a  great  load  were  lifted  off 
her  mind. 

"But  — "  said  the  old  man,  lingering, 

"What?"  said  Maxwell. 

"This  is  a  Sunday,"  was  the  reply,  "and  maybe  you 
wouldn't  like  workin'  on  a  Sunday?" 

"No  matter,"  said  Maxwell.  "If  we  are  breaking  one 
law,  we  might  as  well  break  another,  though  it  will  be 
easier  to  get  pardon  from  above." 

"An'  sure  'tis  a  good  work,  an'  it  may  prevint  murder," 
said  the  old  man. 

"Come!"  said  Maxwell.  "There's  no  time  to  lose. 
Pierry  will  be  back  before  dark;  and  we  must  have  fin- 
ished before  he  returns.  What  shall  I  take,  and  where 
shall  I  go?" 

"The  aisiest  job  for  you,"  said  Owen  McAuliffe, 
"would  be  to  drive  the  two  heifers  up  the  mountains  into 
the  glin  where  Mike  Ahern's  cattle  are.  They  are  as  like 
as  two  pins;  and  nobody  but  Mike  himself  will  know 
them  asunder." 

"And  you  can  trust  him?"  said  Maxwell. 

"Oyeh,  thrust  Mike  Ahern?  As  my  own  brother," 
replied  the  old  man. 

And  Maxwell  set  out  to  break  the  Sabbath,  and  the 
law  of  the  land  at  the  same  time. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IMMEMOR  SUI 

**If  any  one  had  told  me  a  few  weeks  ago,"  thought 
Bob  Maxwell,  as  he  trudged  up  the  hill  toward  the  field 
where  the  heifers  were  feeding,  "that  I,  Robert  Maxwell, 
Esq.,  gentleman  and  landlord,  would  be  engaged  this 
Sunday  afternoon  in  violating  British  law,  and  upsetting 
British  order,  by  frustrating  the  execution  of  her  Majesty's 
writ,  I  should  have  deemed  him  a  madman.  In  the  eyes 
of  the  law,  I  am  about  to  do  a  most  unjustifiable  thing; 
in  the  light  of  conscience,  a  deed  that  is  praiseworthy. 
Which  is  right?  Or  are  both?  Is  the  law  justice,  or 
shall  justice  be  the  law?" 

But  the  die  was  cast.  He  drove  the  heifers  out  of 
the  little  valley  where  they  were  feeding,  out  through  the 
broken  fence,  and  on  to  the  high-road  that  led  up  to  the 
mountain.  He  had  only  a  rough  furze  root  in  his  hand, 
and  he  shouted  Ho!  Ho!  Yeho!  Yeho!  as  he  had  heard 
the  boys  shouting  from  time  to  time.  There  was  a  dis- 
tance of  about  three  miles  up  along  the  mountain  road 
to  the  glen  where  Mike  Ahern's  cottage  nestled;  and,  as 
the  night  sank  early.  Maxwell  was  anxious  to  push  along 
rapidly,  and  get  home  before  nightfall.  He  had  accom- 
plished the  greater  part  of  his  journey,  and  was  whistling 
softly  to  himself,  when  suddenly  two  men  stepped  out 
upon  the  road  from  behind  a  clump  of  furze,  and  per- 

74 


IMMEMOR  SUI  75 

emptorily  challenged  him.  They  were  rough,  strong  men, 
and  clad  in  a  manner  that  showed  Maxwell  at  once  that 
they  did  not  belong  to  the  farmer  or  labouring  class. 
One  of  them  struck  the  heifers  lightly  with  a  switch,  and 
the  animals  swerved  back  into  the  ditch,  as  the  fellow 
said: 

''  Hello !  young  man,  where  are  you  taking  these  heifers  ?  " 

Maxwell's  temper  had  instantly  risen;  and  he  said 
angrily : 

"That's  my  business.  Who  are  you  that  attempt  to 
stop  me  on  the  Queen's  highway?" 

Something  in  his  air  of  determination  and  his  peculiar 
accent  struck  the  man,  for  he  said: 

"We  are  here  in  the  name  of  the  law.  Whose  cattle 
are  these;  and  where  are  you  taking  them?" 

"The  cattle  are  mine  so  long  as  they  are  in  my  posses- 
sion," said  MaxwTll.  "Where  I  am  taking  them  is  my 
own  affair.  Allow  me  to  pass,  please,  or  take  the  conse- 
quences of  an  illegal  seizure  and  arrest." 

This  unexpected  style  of  address  caused  the  men  to  fall 
back  and  consult  together.  Maxwell  took  advantage  of 
the  indecision;  and  striking  the  animals  to  get  them  out 
of  the  dyke,  he  shouted  again  Ho!  Ho!  Yeho!  and  pro- 
ceeded on  his  way  all  the  more  expeditiously,  because  he 
guessed  at  once  they  were  either  the  bailiffs,  who  were 
expected  next  morning,  or  spies  sent  to  report  whether 
the  cattle  had  been  removed.  As  there  was  no  police 
escort,  he  rightly  conjectured  that  they  did  not  mean 
business  that  evening.  In  an  hour  he  had  reached  the 
crest  of  the  hills,  and  was  looking  down  into  the  glen, 
where,   scattered   here   and   there   across  the   darkening 


76  LISHEEN 

fields,  Mike  Ahern's  cattle  were  feeding.  He  drove  his 
own  heifers  up  to  the  door  of  the  cabin,  and  announced 
his  mission. 

"Bannacht  lath!''  said  Mike  Ahern,  coming  out  from 
the  dark,  smoky  recesses  of  the  cabin.  "So  you  dodged 
the  bailiffs,  gossoon.  Come  in!  Come  in!  'Twas  as 
good  as  a  play!" 

"  What  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Maxwell,  puzzled. 
"Surely,  none  of  you  were  there?" 

"Oh!  begobs,  we  wor,"  was  the  reply,  "and  ready  to 
lind  a  helpin'  hand  if  you  wanted  it.  But,  begor,  you 
didn't.  They  thought  'twas  the  Lord  Lieutenant  himself 
that  wos  shpakin'  to  them.  Won't  they  be  mad  with 
thimsel's  to-morrow  morning.  But  come  in,  come  in,  an' 
take  sumthin'  agin  the  road." 

Bob  Maxwell  declined  the  whisky  that  was  offered  him, 
but  asked  for  milk,  which  was  freely  given.  He  drank 
standing,  but  this  was  considered  incompatible  with  hos- 
pitality, so  he  had  to  sit  down,  and  accept  the  delighted 
admiration  of  the  family,  and  the  many  neighbours  who 
had  been  hovering  around  the  place  all  the  evening  in 
expectation  of  a  scene  with  the  bailiffs. 

Mike  Ahern,  who  prided  himself  on  being  a  skilful 
diplomatist,  and  who  was  universally  reputed  as  a  very 
"knowledgeable  man,"  did  not  allude  further  to  the 
evening's  escapade;  but  fell  back,  like  a  wise  man,  on 
generalities. 

"Well,  now,  "said  he,  as  Maxwell  sat  contentedly  with  the 
porringer  in  his  hand,  "an'  how  do  ye  like  the  counthry  ?" 

"Very  well,"  said  Maxwell,  cheerfully.  "I  like  the 
country  and  I  like  the  people." 


IMMEMOR  SUI  77 

"  Wisha,  'tis  a  poor  counthry,"  said  Mike  Ahern,  tenta- 
tively. 

"Poverty  and  riches  are  only  two  forms  of  necessity," 
said  Maxwell. 

Mike  Ahern  looked  puzzled  and  scratched  his  head; 
but  he  murmured: 

"That's  thrue  for  you,  begor!" 

"I  mean,"  said  Maxwell,  mercifully,  "that  the  poor 
man  wants  a  little;  the  rich  man  a  good  deal;  and,  you 
know,  the  more  you  want  the  poorer  you  are !  Therefore, 
a  rich  man  is  only  another  name  for  a  poor  man." 

This  was  a  logical  thesis  that  puzzled  his  audience 
considerably.  But  he  was  in  excellent  humour,  as  any 
man  should  be  who  is  surrounded  by  an  admiring  crowd, 
so  he  condescended  to  explain. 

"What  would  you  call  a  rich  man,  now?"  he  asked, 
addressing  Mike  Ahern. 

"A  rich  man?"  said  Mike,  alarmed.  "Begobs,  that 
depinds!" 

"So  it  does,"  replied  Maxwell.  "But  I  suppose  you'd 
call  a  man  rich  that  would  have,  say,  a  hundred  thousand 
pounds?" 

"Oh,  Lord!"  said  Mike  Ahern.  "Faix,  an'  I  would, 
or  half,  or  quarter,  or  a  tinth  of  it.  Tare  an'  'ouns,  man, 
a  —  hundred  —  thousand  —  pounds!" 

"Well,  I  call  him  'poor,'  "  said  Maxwell,  calmly.  "Be- 
cause there  never  yet  was  a  man  that  had  a  hundred 
thousand  pounds  that  did  not  want  a  hundred  thousand 
more.  And  a  man  that  wants  a  hundred  thousand  pounds 
is  a  poor  man,  isn't  he?" 

"Faith,  I  suppose  he  is!"  said  Mike  Ahern,  dubiously. 


78  LISHEEN 

"But  to  come  down  lower,"  said  Bob  Maxwell,  entering 
into  the  fun  of  the  thing.  "Would  you  call  yourself  a 
poor  man?" 

"Begor,  whatever  I  call  mesclf,  or  any  wan  else,  I  am 
poor  enough,  God  knows!" 

"And  yet,"  said  Maxwell,  "  if  you  had  a  hundred  pounds 
in  the  bank  at  Tralee,  you'd  be  poorer  still/'' 

"Would  I,  though?"  said  Mike  Ahern,  with  a  wink 
around  the  circle,  "That's  the  divil's  own  quare  thing 
entirely.     Thry  me  with  it,  and  you'll  see." 

"Well,"  said  Maxwell.  "Here  is  how  the  matter 
stands.     How  do  you  sleep  now?" 

"Divil  a  betther,"  said  Mike  Ahern.  "From  the 
minute  I  puts  me  head  on  the  pillow  a  cannon  ball  wouldn't 
wake  me!" 

"And  how  is  the  appetite?"  said  Maxwell. 

"Divil  a  betther,"  said  Mike  Ahern.  "Ax  herself  or 
Anstie  there,  an'  they'll  tell  you." 

"Oh,  begor,  that's  thrue,  whatever,"  said  Mrs.  Ahern. 
"There  are  times  when  he'd  ate  the  paving  stones." 

"Very  good,"  said  Maxwell,  "Now,  if  you  had  a 
hundred  pounds  in  the  bank,  you'd  never  sleep  or  eat 
again;  and  you  might  as  well  have  as  much  tissue  paper 
as  bank  notes,  for  all  \he  good  they'd  do  you!" 

"Yerra,  stop  your  codraulin',"  said  Mike  Ahern. 
"Why  shouldn't  I  shleep  and  ate,  wid  me  rint  safe  and 
sound  in  the  bank?" 

"Because  you'd  be  thinking  every  minute  of  the  night 
and  day  that  the  bank  would  break  and  ruin  you;  or  that 
the  manager  would  run  away  with  your  little  deposit; 
or  that  a  thief  would  break  in  and  rob  you.     Then  the 


IMMEMOR   SUI  79 

missus  would  want  a  new  gown  and  Anstie  a  new  hat; 
and  the  neighbours  would  want  to  borrow  a  little  from 
you  to  ease  your  burden;  and  you'd  never  have  a  moment's 
rest,  night  or  day,  until  you  became  a  poor  man,  that  is, 
a  rich  man  again,  that  is,  until  you  had  little  and  wanted 
nothing." 

There  was  a  titter  amongst  the  boys  at  Mike's  expense; 
so  he  turned  the  conversation. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  had  not  much  to  spare  in  the 
army,  whatever,"  he  said.  "Poor  sojers  can't  spare 
much  on  a  shilling  a  day!" 

Maxwell  was  thunderstruck.  The  sudden  revelation 
disconcerted  him  considerably.  Here,  then,  was  the 
estimate  formed  of  him  by  these  people  —  a  discharged 
soldier,  or  worse.  He  looked  frightened,  but  the  old 
man,  seeing  it,  came  to  his  relief. 

"Wisha,  you  needn't  be  put  about,  me  poor  bhoy,  by 
what  I  said.  Your  secret  is  as  safe  wid  us  as  wid  yerself. 
If  the  peelers  are  waitin'  to  hear  from  us,  they'll  wait  a 
long  time." 

Maxwell  was  too  puzzled  to  say  anything.  Mike 
Ahern  came  to  his  relief  again. 

"I  suppose  now  whin  you  go  into  battle  you're  afraid- 
like —  I  mane  most  min  are  afraid?" 

"Yes,"  said  Maxwell,  slowly  regaining  speech.  He 
raised  his  eyes  and  looked  around  and  saw  something 
that  made  him  quite  determined  to  humour  the  fancy 
as  long  as  he  could.  It  was  nothing  more  than  a  few 
rough  boards  leaning  on  a  nail  against  the  wall,  and  con- 
taining a  few  tattered  books.  In  the  dim  light  he  made 
out  the  one  word,  "Shakespeare,"  and  his  heart  leaped 


8o  LISHEEN 

with  joy.  For,  amidst  all  the  causes  of  depression  that 
assailed  him  in  his  new  life,  the  worst  was  the  lack  of  all 
intellectual  exercise  or  pleasure.  Reading  had  been  the 
mainstay  of  his  life  in  city  and  camp.  It  had  become  a 
necesssity  of  existence.  And  much  as  he  felt  the  loneli- 
ness and  the  poverty  and  the  dismal  surroundings  of  his 
new  life,  he  thought  he  could  bear  up  against  the  terrible 
depression,  if  only  he  could  fly  sometimes  from  the  tor- 
ture of  his  own  thoughts  and  go  out  into  those  delightful 
realms  of  fancy  created  by  the  masters  of  poetry  and 
fiction  for  the  benefit  of  the  race.  A  hundred  times  he 
was  tempted  to  ask  Pierry  to  beg  a  loan  of  a  few  books 
from  the  priest  —  the  only  one  within  miles  who  would 
be  likely  to  possess  any.  But  he  shrank  in  shyness  from 
making  such  a  request,  and  had  his  soul  starved  in  con- 
sequence. Now,  unexpectedly,  he  had  lighted  on  a  treas- 
ure, and  his  eyes  shone  with  delight,  like  those  of  a 
thrice-disappointed  miner  who  has  just  seen  beneath  the 
dull  brown  earth  the  gleam  of  hidden  gold. 

"Yes,"  he  replied  to  Mike  Ahearn's  question,  "that's 
true.  No  man,  no  matter  how  brave,  hears  the  bullets 
whistle  round  him  for  the  first  time  without  fear  and 
shrinking.  Then  the  temper  rises  when  one  begins  to 
think  that  over  there  are  fellows  who  want  to  murder 
him.  And  then  he  becomes  mad,  mad,  and  he  wants  to 
kill,  kill,  everybody  and  everything." 

The  young  men  understood  him  well.  They  were  of 
the  fighting  race  —  the  knights  of  the  spade  and  sword. 

"Men  are  strange  beings,"  continued  Maxwell,  solilo- 
quizing. "  Just  as  you  have  often  seen  a  horse,  especially 
at  night,  start  at  shadows  and  tremble  all  over  and  shake 


IMMEMOR  SUr  8i 

and  become  white  with  sweat,  where  the  rider  sees  nothing; 
and  then  at  another  time,  without  any  apparent  cause, 
will  take  the  bit  between  his  teeth  and  pull  to  the  devil, 
so  it  is  with  men.  We  are  always  starting  at  shadows, 
and  then  driving  mad  to  ruin  and  destruction." 

"What  you  say  about  the  horses  is  thrue,  whatever," 
said  one  of  the  young  men.  "I  see  you  wor  a  dragoon, 
or  else  you  could  never  have  known  them  so  well.  But 
min  don't  start  and  sweat  at  shaddas!" 

"Don't  they?"  said  Maxwell,  turning  around,  and 
facing  his  interlocutor,  who  sat  back  amidst  a  group  upon 
the  settle.  "I  bet  you  a  pipe  of  tobacco,  that  I'll  make 
you  shiver  and  tremble,  like  a  girl,  before  ten  minutes." 

"Begobs,  thin,  you  couldn't,"  said  the  young  fellow, 
completely  misunderstanding  Maxwell,  and  standing  up 
to  divest  himself  of  his  coat  for  a  fight,  "nor  a  betther  man 

den  you.     Come  on,  you  d d  desarter,  an'  lemma  see 

you  do  it!" 

The  others  tried  to  pull  the  fellow  back  into  the  seat, 
and  to  calm  him,  but  it  was  no  easy  task. 

"No,  no;  I  wo'  not  be  quiet,"  he  said,  struggling  against 
them,  "didn't  the  fellow  say  he'd  make  me  thrimble  be- 
fore him.     D him,  I  often  bate  a  betther  man  than 

him.  Let  him  come  on  now,  or  come  out  into  the  haggart, 
where  the  wimmin  won't  be  frickened!  No,  no;  I  won't 
sit  down,  till  I  have  it  out  wid  him." 

Maxwell  himself  was  amazed,  and  even  frightened.  He 
had  excellent  nerves,  but  they  began  to  sink  under  the  new 
and  utterly  strange  circumstances  in  which  he  found  himself. 

"You  misunderstand  me,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  said, 
rising  up.     "I  didn't  mean  that.     Put  on  your  coat." 
6 


82  LISHEEN 

"Oh,  you  didn't  mane  that,  you  didn't,"  sneered  the 
other.  "Of  course  you  didn't,  not  you.  Well,  would 
you  be  plazed  to  tell  the  company  what  you  did  mane, 
whin  you  said  you  could  best  me?" 

"I  never  said  I  could  best  you,"  said  Maxwell,  meekly. 
"What  I  meant  was  to  show  you  how  easily  we  are  in- 
fluenced, so  that  I  can  make  any  of  you  laugh  or  cry, 
get  frightened  or  angry,  in  a  few  minutes,  and  merely  by 
word  of  mouth.  Which  will  you  have  first,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  gaiety  he  did  not  feel,  "the  laugh  or  the 
fright?" 

"Begor,"  said  Mike  Ahern,  "like  the  man  that  was 
invited  to  taste  the  tay  or  the  whishky,  and  thought  he'd 
take  the  whishky  whilst  they  wor  makin'  the  tay,  we'll 
have  the  fright  over  first,  that  we  may  get  our  night's 
rest  afther." 

"He  may  go  on,  but  he's  not  goin'  to  fricken  me,"  said 
the  young  man  who  thought  he  was  challenged. 

"Then,  hand  me  down  that  book,"  said  Max^vell, 
pointing  to  the  blackened  and  tattered  Shakespeare. 

But  here  commenced  another  painful  scene.  For  just 
as  Mike  Ahern  was  stretching  his  hand  towards  the  book, 
his  wife,  a  middle-aged,  sorrow-stricken  woman,  began 
to  rock  herself  to  and  fro,  on  the  sugan  chair  where  she 
was  sitting,  and  to  moan  out,  as  she  clasped  and  reclasped 
her  hands  before  her; 

"Oh,  vo!  vo!  oh!  mavrone!  ma\Tone!  to  think  of  you, 
to-night,  me  darlin'  bhoy,  away  from  me,  your  mother, 
an'  I  here  alone,  alone!  Oh,  don't  tetch  'em!  don't  tetch 
'em,  me  poor  bhoy's  books,  that  he  loved  in  his  heart  of 
hearts!     Oh,  lave  'em  alone!  lave  'em  alone!     Didn't  I 


IMMEMOR  SUI  83 

promise  him  that  no  hand  but  his  should  titch  'em  tell 
he  come  back,  me  fair-haired  bhoy — ?" 

It  was  the  old,  old  story  in  Ireland.  The  darling  son, 
the  flower  of  the  flock,  the  sunny,  bright-haired  boy,  who 
had  no  taste  for  sports  or  fun,  but  only  for  the  books  and 
his  prayers;  set  apart  for  Levitical  purposes,  the  one 
o\'crwhelming  ambition  of  the  Irish  mother ;  sent  to  college 
out  of  the  scrapings  and  economies  of  the  humble  house- 
hold; coming  back  on  his  holidays,  the  light  of  his  mother's 
eyes;  then,  suddenly  disappearing,  as  if  swallowed  up  in  a 
mighty  storm  of  anguish;  and  leaving  behind  him  a  terrible 
memory  of  shattered  hopes,  disappointed  ambitions,  and 
the  stern  judgment  of  silence  on  the  hearth  he  had  dese- 
crated, except  for  those  eternal  echoes  of  maternal  love, 
that  no  ban  or  judgment,  public  or  private,  could  ever 
stifle  or  extinguish.  It  was  no  alleviation  of  her  misery 
to  learn  that  her  boy,  deeming  himself  unsuited  to  the 
ecclesiastical  state,  had  gone  to  New  York,  and  was  now 
a  successful  journalist  on  one  of  the  leading  papers;  that 
he  had  a  salary  of  ten  pounds  a  week,  and  was  reputed  a 
man  who  might  rise  to  the  highest  departments  in  his  pro- 
fession. She  would  rather  see  him  a  young  curate  in  the 
remotest  chapel  on  the  Kerry  mountains,  or  down  where 
the  Atlantic  surges  beat  against  the  beehive  cells  of  ancient 
monks  and  hermits  —  anywhere,  anywhere,  provided  she 
could  see  him  in  the  priest's  vestments  at  the  altar  of 
God. 

"Wisha,  shure,  he  can't  do  any  harrum,"  said  Mike 
Ahern  to  the  wife  who  still  continued  rocking  herself  to 
and  fro  on  the  chair,  and  clasping  and  unclasping  her 
hands,  and  moaning.     "Sure,  he's  not  going  to  run  away 


84  LISHEEN 

wid  'em.  Here,  bhoy,take  the  book,  an'  see  what  you  can 
make  of  it." 

But  Maxwell's  nerves  were  now  too  shaken;  and  he 
excused  himself.  A  strange  fear  had  come  down  upon 
his  soul.  The  weird  place,  hidden  away  in  mountain 
solitudes,  the  high  winds  that  forever  moaned  and  wailed 
about  the  valleys,  the  darkness  of  the  cabin,  lighted  only 
by  the  turf  and  wood  fire,  which  cast  vast,  uncanny 
shadows  on  the  walls  and  up  against  the  blackened  thatch 
and  the  rafters  that  were  ebonized  by  years  of  smoke,  the 
wild  faces  all  around,  reddened  by  the  fire  whilst  all  else 
was  blind  and  black  in  the  shadow;  the  anger  of  the  young 
man,  who,  without  the  slightest  provocation,  wanted  to 
pick  a  quarrel;  the  secrecy  with  which,  as  they  had  con- 
fessed, they  had  watched  him  coming  up  the  mountain 
side;  and  lastly,  the  sudden  emotion  of  the  gray-haired 
woman  by  the  fire  —  all  combined  to  remind  Maxwell 
that  he  was  in  strange  and  perhaps  perilous  circumstances 
of  life;  and  brought  to  his  memory  one  parting  word  of 
Outram's:  "You  are  afraid.  Maxwell.  You  don't  trust 
the  noblest  peasantry  in  the  world.  You  need  a  talis- 
man!" 

He  tried  to  shake  it  off,  but  in  vain.  Then  he  thought 
he  had  been  led  into  a  horrid  trap  by  the  very  family  with 
which  he  had  been  living  in  such  amity  during  the  last 
few  weeks.  Perhaps,  after  all,  the  old  suspicion  was 
right;  and  that  he  had  betrayed  himself  into  surroundings 
of  extreme  peril.  All  that  he  had  ever  heard  of  the 
bloodthirstiness  of  the  peasantry,  of  their  hatred  of  land- 
lords, of  their  disregard  for  human  life,  came  back  to  him; 
and  one  only  thought  took  possession  of  him  —  how  to 


IMMEMOR   SUI  85 

get  away  from  such  uncann}^  people,  and  get  back  to  civil- 
ization once  more. 

He  took  the  ring  that  Outram  had  given  him  from  his 
pocket,  and  put  it  quietly  on  his  little  finger.  In  the  dark 
atmosphere  it  began  to  smoke  and  emit  flames.  He  put 
his  hand  over  his  head,  and  stroked  down  his  hair,  so  that 
all  might  see  the  talisman.  They  were  very  soon  as 
frightened  as  himself,  and  Mike  Ahern,  thrusting  the 
"Shakespeare"  into  his  hands,  said  tremulously: 

"Here,  sure,  if  that's  what  you  want,  'tis  aisily  settled. 
But  I'm  thinkin'  we'll  put  off  the  fright  and  the  laugh  to 
some  other  time." 

Maxwell  took  the  book;  but  with  great  courtesy  he 
stooped  over  and  held  it  out  towards  the  poor  mother: 

"I'll  bring  it  back  to  you  safe  as  I  got  it,"  he  said. 
"  Only  let  me  have  it  for  a  few  days." 

The  terrible  ring  flamed  under  her  eyes;  and  she  turned 
away. 

"Oh,  take  it!  take  it!  in  the  Name  of  God,"  she  said, 
"and  go  away.  I  knew  the  divil  had  somethin'  to  say  to 
you,  whin  I  saw  you  comin'  into  the  house." 

Maxwell  accepted  the  compliment,  and  with  an  affected 
gaiety,  he  said:  "Good-night,  lads!"  and  went  down  along 
the  mountain  road  to  his  home. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

BROKEN  CORDS 

Was  Maxwell  missed  from  Dublin  society?  Not  in 
the  least.  His  landlord  friends  had  departed,  each  down 
to  his  own  mansion  by  moor,  or  mountain,  or  sea,  and  had 
forgotten  all  about  him.  Once  or  twice  his  Quixotic 
ideas  about  property  and  tenants  were  alluded  to  as  a 
joke  in  the  Dublin  club,  and  then  dropped  suddenly. 

In  the  more  gentle  social  life,  too,  the  life  that  runs  its 
pleasant  course  through  steady  rounds  of  balls  and  parties, 
over  smooth-shaven  tennis-lawns  and  polished  floors,  to 
the  accompaniment  of  military  bands  or  famous  violinists, 
his  name  was  never  mentioned.  The  truth  is  that  Bob 
Maxwell  had  been  more  or  less  of  a  recluse,  and  had  had 
a  decided  aversion  to  the  frivolities  of  life,  mingling  with 
the  throng  just  because  there  was  a  certain  silent  law  com- 
pelling him;  but  unsympathetic,  and,  if  he  dared  confess 
it,  somewhat  contemptuous  and  pitying.  He  was  amongst 
them,  but  not  of  them.  They  knew  it;  and  they  gave  him 
back  indifference  for  indifference. 

In  one  place  alone  he  was  remembered  —  remembered 
with  angry  affection  and  resentful  scorn.  Old  Major 
Willoughby  was  connected  with  Maxwell  by  marriage; 
but  there  was  a  closer  bond  in  the  intimacy,  or  rather  the 
close  friendship,  that  had  subsisted,  since  they  were  young 
subalterns,  between  himself  and  Bob  Maxwell's  father. 

86 


BROKEN  CORDS  87 

Men  who  have  messed  together  in  their  adolescence,  who 
have  been  sundered  by  the  War  office,  who  have  again  met 
and  fought,  side  by  side,  against  Pathan  or  Afghan,  who 
have  camped  out  together  in  Himalayan  snows,  and  have 
ridden,  neck  to  neck,  over  ploughed  fields  in  Ireland,  are 
not  likely  to  view  each  other  coldly,  or  through  the  wTap- 
pings  of  social  convenances.  And  when  Maxwell's  father 
died,  leaving  an  only  son,  heir  to  large  estates,  it  was  the 
darling  hope  of  the  old  Major's  life,  to  see  the  son  of  his 
old  friend  and  his  own  beloved  daughter  happily  married 
in  the  enjoyment  of  their  joint  estates.  Hence  there  was 
a  tacit  engagement,  prolonged  only  because  the  Dublin 
doctors  had  some  suspicion  of  Maxwell's  health;  and  the 
latter  was  slow,  through  a  sense  of  honour,  in  assuming 
responsibilities  until  he  was  assured  he  was  qualified  to 
discharge  them.  Hence,  there  were  many  discrepancies 
and  disagreements  amongst  the  young  people  during  this 
protracted  engagement;  and  these  grew  more  intense  and 
embittered  as  each  began  to  perceive  that  their  dispositions 
hardly  suited.  During  their  stay  at  Caragh  Lake  the 
conviction  had  dawned  into  certainty  that  neither  in  taste 
nor  temper  were  they  suited  to  draw  the  chariot  of  life 
together;  and  they  had  parted  without  any  formal  relin- 
quishment or  rupture  of  their  engagement,  and  yet  with 
the  understanding,  unspoken  but  understood,  that  all 
question  of  marriage  was  at  end  between  them.  On  his 
part,  this  sundering  of  such  close  ties  was  taken  with  an 
equanimity  that  would  have  been  singular,  and  even  un- 
natural, but  that  he  had  always  regarded  their  engagement 
as  a  something  artificial,  and  made  to  suit  the  whims  of 
others;  and,  as  we  have  seen,  his  thoughts  had  taken  a 


88  LISHEEN 

higher  range  along  summits  whose  austere  sublimities 
frowned  down  upon  the  felicities  of  happy  hearths  and 
households.  On  her  part,  she  was  little  loth  to  break  an 
engagement  with  one  whose  health  was  imperfect,  and 
whose  sympathies  swept  beyond  the  minor  affections  and 
attentions,  where  women  place  their  destinies  with  their 
hearts.  And  when  a  new  and  more  sympathetic  figure 
came  into  her  life,  in  the  person  of  Ralph  Outram,  who, 
belonging  more  to  the  nether  world,  could  yet  touch  her 
maiden  fancies  with  dream- pictures  of  Indian  life,  savage 
and  picturesque,  military  and  native,  squalid  and  sublime, 
but  above  all  mysterious  and  occult  as  the  predictions  of 
Sybils,  or  the  rites  of  some  Eleusis,  she  gladly  abandoned 
an  engagement  that  could  only  be  fraught  with  disappoint- 
ment, and  went  over  to  a  newer  and  more  human  life, 
which  instinct  and  reason  told  her  would  be  more  helpful 
to  her  happiness  and  peace. 

But,  if  this  pleased  Mabel  Willoughby,  it  did  not  suit 
the  plans  and  ambitions  of  her  father.  At  first,  he  found 
it  impossible  to  believe  that  the  dream  of  his  life  was  at  an 
end,  and  that  all  his  happy  arrangements  were  silently 
frustrated.  He  had  been  used  to  command,  and  to  be 
obeyed.  He  could  not  understand  disobedience  or  re- 
sistance. He  also  considered  that  he  had  as  much  right 
to  exact  obedience  from  Maxwell  as  from  Mabel ;  and  when 
he  found  that  suddenly  all  his  delightful  plans  were  frus- 
trated, he  raged  equally  against  both. 

"'Tis  all  d d  rot,"  he  said  one  morning  to  his 

daughter,  after  a  stormy  scene,  now,  alas!  of  frequent 
occurrence  between  them,  "to  tell  me  that  Bob  has  gone 
away  through  some  confounded  fad  or  another.     Bob 


BROKEN  CORDS  89 

was  too  level-headed  for  that  kind  of  thing.  'Twas  you 
yourself,  with  your  confounded  whims  and  nonsense, 
drove  the  boy  away." 

"I  don't  wish  to  argue  the  matter  further,"  she  said, 
with  a  certain  kind  of  coldness  that  could  hardly  be  called 
sarcasm.  "I  have  only  to  repeat  that  there  was  no  scene, 
no  rupture  between  Mr.  Maxwell  and  myself;  and  that, 
so  report  goes,  he  has  embarked  on  a  foolish  enterprise, 
where  it  would  be  idle  and  degrading  to  follow  him." 

"  I  don't  believe  one  word  of  it,"  said  the  Major.  "  'Tis 
that  confounded  Indian  fellow  —  that  nabob,  or  rajah, 
or  something  —  who  has  spread  the  report  for  some  vile 
purpose  of  his  own.  I  say,  Mabel,  beware  of  that  fellow. 
I  don't  hke  him;  and  we  know  nothing  of  him." 

"  Except,"  said  Mabel,  "that  he  has  been  now  appointed 
aide-de-camp  to  the  Viceroy,  and  has  got  his  C.  B." 

"What?  What?"  said  the  Major.  "Then  the  fellow 
is  somebody  after  all.  Well,  no  matter.  Bob  Maxwell 
for  me.  Old  friends,  old  books,  old  wine  for  me.  See 
here,  Mabel,  get  me  at  once  pen  and  paper.  I'll  put  an 
advertisement  first  in  the  Irish  Times,  and  if  that  fails 
to  fetch  him,  by  the  Lord,  I'll  put  him  in  the  Hue  and 
Cry,  and  get  him  arrested." 

Mabel  dutifully  brought  pen  and  paper  to  her  irascible 
father;  and  he  spent  half  the  day  concocting  a  notice  for 
the  Irish  Times.  These  were  some  of  the  specimens, 
which,  however,  never  reached  the  dignity  of  print. 

"Missing. — Young  gentleman;  aged  thirty;  hair 
brown;  eyes  —    What  kind  of  eyes  had  Bob,  Mabel?" 

"I  hardly  know,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mabel.  "Say  — 
hazel.     It  means  anything  and  everything!" 


90 


LISHEEN 


" — Hazel;  height  about  five  feet  ten  inches  (it  may  be 
an  inch  or  two  more);  call  him  'Bob'  suddenly,  and  he 
will  reveal  himself.  If  any  one  should  find  him,  corre- 
spond with  Major  Willoughby,  late  ist  Dragoon  Guards, 
Dalmeny,  Dublin." 

''There,"  said  the  Major,  after  reading  it  aloud  for  his 
daughter.     "That'll  fetch  him!" 

"I  wouldn't  insert  that  if  I  were  you,"  said  his  daughter. 

"Why?     Why?"  said  the  Major. 

"Because  you  will  make  yourself  the  laughing-stock  of 
every  mess  and  club  in  Dublin,"  said  Mabel. 

"Why?  Why?  What  the  devil  have  I  said?"  said  the 
Major.     "Isn't  it  plain  as  a  pikestaff?" 

"Too  plain,"  said  Mabel. 

And  her  father  tossed  the  paper  into  the  fire.  Later 
in  the  day,  after  much  cogitation,  he  wrote:  "If  Robert 
Maxwell  will  return  from  his  foolish  and  absurd  expe- 
dition, and  come  back  to  his  friends,  all  will  be  forgiven 
and  forgotten," 

This,  too,  after  a  similar  scene,  passed  into  the  fire. 

Later  on  he  wrote: 

"If  any  member  of  the  R.  I.  C.  or  the  military  in 
the  counties  of  Cork,  or  Kerry,  or  Limerick,  have  any 
information  or  tidings  about  a  young  gentleman,  who  is 
roaming  around  the  country  in  disguise,  he  will  receive  a 
handsome  reward  by  communicating  such  intelligence  to 
Major  Willoughby,  Dalmeny,  Dublin." 

This  was  an  after-lunch  composition;  and  the  Major 
read  it  over  nearly  a  hundred  times.  When  Mabel  came 
in  to  tea  the  Major  read  it  to  her.  He  looked  at  her  wist- 
fully. 


BROKEN   CORDS  91 

"'Tis  better,"  she  said  coolly,  "than  the  other  com- 
positions. But  I  should  say  it  would  be  wiser  to  have 
your  intelligence  or  information  sent  to  'Major,  this 
office.'" 

"That's  an  anonymous  business,"  said  the  Major. 
"I  hate  that  kind  of  thing.  I'm  not  ashamed  of  my 
name,  Mabel." 

"N  —  no";  she  said  slowly,  throwing  her  hat  and 
jacket  on  a  sofa.  "But  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  exposed  to 
ridicule  just  now." 

"Ridicule?     Just  now?"  echoed  the  Major. 

"Yes,"  said  Mabel,  going  over  and  arranging  her  hair 
before  a  mantel  mirror.  "The  subject  is  one  that  is 
causing  some  merriment  in  society ;  and  —  ah !  —  I  — 
well,  Mr.  Outram  mightn't  like  it!" 

"Mr.  Outram?"  said  the  Major,  flaring  up.  "Mr. 
Outram!  And  who  the  devil  cares  what  Mr.  Outram 
likes,  or  dislikes?" 

"Why,  I,  for  one,  care  a  good  deal,"  said  his  daughter, 
coming  over  and  calmly  pouring  out  some  tea. 

"You?"  said  the  Major,  growing  pale  with  apprehen- 
sion. 

"Yes,"  said  Mabel.    "Mr.  Outram  and  I  are  engaged!'''' 

At  the  sudden  and  awful  revelation  the  Major  was 
struck  dumb.  He  stared  at  the  cool,  supercilious  face  of 
his  daughter,  whilst  a  tornado  of  impetuous  language 
swept  through  his  mind,  and  would  have  escaped  his  lips, 
but  for  that  'cruelly  meek'  expression,  that  bade  him  be- 
ware, for  he  was  no  match  for  a  woman.  The  quiet  way 
in  which  she  had  conquered;  her  cold,  passionless  manner 
in  announcing  her  engagement  to  a  man  whom  she  knew 


92  LISHEEN 

her  father  cordially  detested,  made  him  suddenly  realize 
that  should  he  force  a  quarrel  here,  he  would  be  certainly 
defeated.  After  a  while,  he  muttered  between  his 
lips: 

"Very  good!" 

Then,  as  the  old  affection  for  the  deserted  Bob  came 
back,  and  he  imagined  the  latter  wandering  houseless 
and  alone  through  wild,  savage  places,  whilst  his  cousin, 
without  a  particle  of  feeling  or  remorse,  had  transferred 
her  affections  to  an  absolute  stranger,  a  feeling  of  great 
compassion  for  Maxwell  came  over  him,  and  the  tears 
started  into  his  eyes. 

"And  so  you  have  thrown  Bob  Maxwell  over,"  he  said 
at  length.     "Poor  Bob!" 

"Well,  no,"  she  said,  with  singular  composure.  "I 
should  rather  say  that  Mr.  Maxwell  had  made  it  but  too 
clear  that  he  wished  our  engagement  at  an  end!" 

"That  puts  a  new  complexion  on  affairs,"  said  the 
Major.     "When  did  Bob  break  up  the  matter?" 

"There  was  no  formal  understanding  between  us,"  said 
Mabel.  "But  I  knew,  after  that  last  evening  in  the 
Caragh  Lake  Hotel,  that  it  was  his  wish  that  all  should 
be  at  an  end  between  us." 

"But  he  never  said  so?"  persisted  her  father. 

"No,  never,  but  I  had  no  intention  of  waiting  till  I  was 
contemptuously  dismissed.  And  this  Quixotic  expedition 
would  have  brought  the  matter  otherwise  to  a  termination." 

"I  don't  believe  one  d d  word  of  it,"   said  the 

Major,  in  a  sudden  fury.     "  'Tis  some  d d  lie,  invented 

by  this  Outram  or  some  such  sneaking  fellow,  to  prejudice 
you  against  your  cousin." 


BROKEN  CORDS  93 

"I  take  no  account,  Father,"  she  said,  "of  your  violent 
language ;  but  it  is  quite  useless  to  suppose  that  what  every 
club  and  mess  were  talking  about  a  month  ago  could  be 
altogether  a  fabrication.  You  knew  that  Mr.  Maxwell 
was  not  dishonourable!" 

"Yes;  by  heaven,  I'd  swear  it,"  said  the  old  man. 
"Bob  Maxwell  was  the  soul  of  honour!" 

"Then,  when  he  made  an  engagement,  call  it  rash, 
Quixotic,  mad,  you  may  be  sure  he'd  keep  it!" 

"Yes,  certainly,  but  then  he  must  have  been  betrayed 
into  it  by  taunts  of  cowardice,  or  somehow.  He  was  too 
level-headed  a  fellow  to  give  up  his  rooms,  his  club,  and 
—  and  —  and  you,  Mab,  to  start  off  on  a  fool's  errand. 
Besides,"  continued  the  old  man  earnestly,  as  he  advanced 
in  the  defence  of  his  favourite,  "Bob  was  the  last  man  in 
Ireland  to  disgrace  himself,  his  family,  and  his  class,  by 
doing  what  these  scoundrels  say  he  did.  A  gentleman 
may  lose  at  cards,  or  on  horses,  or  get  decently  drunk  on 
honest  port,  or  run  away  from  a  scoundrelly  bailiff,  and 
be  still  a  gentleman;  but  to  go  down  amongst  these  rob- 
bing, murdering  ruffians,  who'd  think  no  more  of  shooting 
him  than  if  he  were  a  dog,  if  once  they  discovered  he  was 
a  gentleman  —  no,  no ;  Bob  Maxwell,  take  my  word  for 
it,  has  never  disgraced  himself  thus!" 

And  the  Major  puffed  and  puffed,  as  he  struggled  to 
catch  his  breath  after  such  an  outburst  of  eloquence. 

Mabel  was  silent.  The  Major  took  the  last  paper  he 
had  intended  as  an  advertisement,  and  flung  it  in  the  fire. 
Rollo,  his  big  retriever,  who  had  been  sleeping  on  the  rug, 
roused  himself,  came  over,  and  placed  his  great  head  on 
the  Major's  knee. 


94  LISHEEN 

After  a  long  and  awkward  interval  of  silence,  Mabel 
arose  and  put  on  her  hat  and  jacket  again,  preparatory 
to  going  out.  The  old  man  looked  at  her  pitifully  and 
pleadingly;  but  she  took  no  notice.     At  last  he  said: 

"Look  here,  Mab.  Give  me  one  chance  to  find  Bob 
and  make  it  all  right  with  you.  Give  me  time  to  put  the 
matter  into  the  hands  of  ,a  detective;  and  I'll  search 
Ireland  for  him,  and  bring  him  back  to  you." 

"To  me?  Oh,  not  to  me,"  said  his  daughter.  "That 
chapter  of  life  is  over  forever.  If  you  want  Mr.  Maxwell 
back,  Father,  by  all  means  use  every  instrument  you  can 
towards  it.  But  the  matter  concerns  me  no  longer.  I 
hardly  think  I  shall  meet  him  again!" 

"You  are  a  d d,  ungrateful  hussy,"  said  the  Major, 

now  furious  again,     "I  shall  call  in  Radford  to-morrow; 

for,  by !  neither  you  nor  that  cad  shall  ever  touch  a 

penny  that  I  possess." 

"You'll  come  back  to  reason,  Father,"  she  replied. 
"And  some  day  you'll  be  glad  to  withdraw  that  word,  for 
you  will  see  its  injustice." 

"Injustice?  No,  I  can't  be  mistaken.  The  fellow 
that  would  steal  away  a  girl's  affection  from  her  intended 
husband,  and  who  hadn't  the  courage  to  come  to  me  and 
state  his  intentions,  is  a  cad,  and  a  contemptible  one,  if 
he  had  the  Ribbon  of  the  Garter." 

"Well,  I  presume,  as  Mr.  Outram  did  not  care  to  hazard 
your  good  opinion  before,  he  is  not  likely  to  embarrass 
you  with  his  presence  now,"  said  Mabel,  going  out. 

"If  he  does,  I'll  give  orders  to  Michael  to  pitch  him  into 
the  channel,"  said  the  Major.  "And  now  one  last 
word  — " 


BROKEN   CORDS  95 

But  Mabel  had  gone  out.  He  heard  the  hall-door 
slammed;  but  was  unable  to  follow. 

But  next  day  he  did  communicate  with  a  certain  Dublin 
detective,  and  gave  instructions,  whilst  he  detailed  every 
particular  of  Bob's  appearance,  that  he  was  to  be  found, 
cost  what  it  might. 


CHAPTER  IX 


CALLED  BACK 


When  Bob  Maxwell  emerged  from  the  cabin  in  the 
valley  the  darkness  had  fallen,  and  the  hea^7,  drizzling 
rain  preluded  a  wet  night.  He  had  some  difficulty  in 
making  his  way  to  the  main  road,  for  the  rough  passage 
seemed  to  branch  out  into  a  hundred  by-ways  that  might 
have  led  him  hopelessly  astray.  But  at  last  he  knew 
by  the  evenness  of  the  surface  and  the  absence  of  rough 
boulders  that  he  was  once  more  on  the  County  Road, 
and  he  pushed  briskly  forward  towards  home.  But  his 
heart  was  heavy;  and  the  weight  of  an  unaccustomed 
fear  pressed  down  upon  his  spirits.  Once  or  twice  he 
was  about  to  return,  and  give  back  the  book.  "For  what 
use  can  it  be  now,"  he  thought,  "when  I  am  leaving  this 
uncanny  place  forever?"  But  the  trouble  of  returning 
along  the  rock- strewn  mountain  path,  and  the  aversion  he 
felt  towards  renewing  such  an  inauspicious  acquaintance, 
determined  him  otherwise ;  and  he  moved  down  the  moun- 
tain road,  heedless  of  the  fine,  thin  rain  that  was  now 
soaking  through  his  garments. 

It  was  late  when  he  lifted  the  latch  and  pushed  in  the 
half-door  in  Owen  McAuliffe's  cottage.  The  family  were 
seated  moodily  around  the  fire.  The  shadow  of  a  great 
trial  was  over  them,  and  kept  them  sadly  silent.  As  Max- 
well entered  they  looked  inquiringly  towards  him,  and 

96 


CALLED  BACK  97 

perceiving  that  it  was  no  stranger  they  turned  their  sad 
faces  again  to  the  fire.  He  went  over  and  sat  silent  on 
the  settle.     After  a  while  the  old  man  said: 

"  Come  over  and  set  near  the  fire.  Were  the  heifers  all 
right?" 

"They  were  all  right,"  said  Maxwell,  coming  over  and 
taking  a  chair.  "Two  men  accosted  me  as  I  went  up 
the  hill;  but  I  paid  them  no  heed  — " 

"So  we  hard!  so  we  hard!"  said  the  old  man,  waving 
his  pipe.     "They're  gettin'  ready  for  the  mornin'." 

"I  took  them  safely  up  to  Ahern's,  and  left  them  there," 
continued  Maxwell. 

"They  kep'  you  too  long  up  there,  and  you  caught  the 
rain,"  said  Mrs.  Mcx\uliffe,  feelingly,  as  she  saw  the  steam 
rising  from  Maxwell's  clothes  under  the  heat  of  the 
fire. 

"Yes,  we  were  talking  a  good  deal,"  said  Maxwell; 
"and  I  didn't  heed  the  time.  I  should  have  come  home 
when  my  business  was  done." 

"An'  I  suppose  you  had  no  supper  now  a-yet?"  he  was 
asked. 

"No,  I  had  some  milk  — " 

"Get  the  bhoy  a  cup  of  tay,  Debbie,"  said  the  old  man, 
"the  kittle  is  boiling." 

Before  he  had  tea,  however,  Pierry  came  in;  and  it 
needed  but  a  glance  to  see  that  Pierry  was  the  worse 
for  drink.  He  flung  his  hat  defiantly  upon  the  settle, 
then  sat  down  moodily,  his  head  between  his  knees. 

"Oh,  wisha,  dheelin,'  dheelin',"  said  the  old  woman, 
rocking  herself  to  and  fro,  "and  this  night,  too,  of  all  the 
nights  in  the  year." 
7 


98  LISHEEN 

"Whash  matther  wi'  dis  ni'?"  said  Pierry,  raising  his 
flushed  face. 

But  he  got  no  answer,  and  seemed  sunk  in  stupid  uncon- 
sciousness. When  the  tea,  however,  was  placed  on  the 
table  for  Maxwell,  Pierry  seemed  to  notice  it;  and  stum- 
bling across  the  kitchen,  he  placed  himself  opposite  Max- 
well and  demanded  tea  also.  They  gave  it  to  him,  and 
the  strong  stimulant  seemed  to  arouse  him  from  his  stupid 
torpor  without  restoring  self-consciousness,  for  Pierry  be- 
came facetious.  With  that  maudlin,  stupid  smile  that 
makes  a  drunken  man  so  absurd  and  ridiculous,  he  looked 
towards  Maxwell  with  swimming  eyes,  and  shouted,  like 
an  officer  on  parade: 

"ShouP  awms!" 

Maxwell  saw  at  once  the  insinuation,  but  he  said 
nothing.  The  others  were  quick  enough  to  observe  the 
same,  but  they  were  afraid  to  provoke  the  drunken  fellow 
into  anger. 

"Shoul'  awms,"  I  say,  shouted  Pierry  again.  '"Shun! 
'Tinshun!" 

Maxwell,  though  utterly  angry  and  disgusted,  con- 
tinued the  meal  in  silence. 

"Ri'  'bout  face!  March!"  shouted  Pierry.  And  then, 
as  Maxwell  took  no  heed,  Pierry  gave  the  final  sentence: 

"Shells!  Black  ho',  fortni'!" 

When,  however,  after  a  little  while,  his  hea\7'  senses 
began  to  lighten  a  little,  he  stooped  over  and  said  con- 
fidentially to  Maxwell: 

"  You're  the  bhoy  we  wor  lookin'  fer.  Mike  Ahern's 
plantation!  Prepare  to  'ceive  cavalry!    Thiggun-thu ? " 

And  after  sundry  winks  and  nods  and  gestures,  indica- 


CALLED  BACK 


99 


tive  of  the  use  of  arms,  Pierry  sank  into  unconsciousness 
again. 

They  opened  the  settle  bed  and  tumbled  him  into  it, 
the  old  mother  moaning! 

"Dheelin'!  dheelin'!  an'  of  all  nights  of  the  year,  whin 
we  don't  know  but  we'll  be  thrun  upon  the  road  to- 
morrow!" 

Maxwell  had  to  take  the  bed  in  the  loft.  He  climbed 
the  ladder,  heavy  at  heart,  and  put  down  the  candle  in  the 
tin  sconce  on  the  chair  near  the  bed,  which  was  placed 
upon  the  floor.  He  had  not  been  up  here  before;  and  now, 
before  undressing,  he  took  a  survey  of  the  room.  Half 
the  floor  was  occupied  with  hay  and  straw,  room  for 
which  could  not  be  found  in  the  barn.  There  was  no 
ceiling.  The  rough-hewn  rafters  were  bare;  and  between 
them  the  thatch  would  be  plainly  visible,  but  that  it  was 
festooned  with  a  vast  white  net  of  cobwebs,  whose  orifices 
here  and  there  told  of  the  size  of  the  spiders  who  had 
woven  them.  In  fact  it  was  a  great  dark  city  of  spiders; 
and  Maxwell  shuddered  as  he  thought  of  the  possibility 
of  some  of  these  dropping  down  on  his  face  in  the  night. 
He  latched  the  door,  removed  the  candle  from  the  chair 
and  sat  down  and  began  to  think.  What  his  thoughts 
were  may  be  conjectured  from  the  final  exclamation: 

"My  God,  what  a  fool  I  have  been!  But  only  to- 
night remains !    To-morrow — " 

The  morning  broke  wet  and  drizzling;  but  before  Max- 
well descended  from  the  loft,  he  heard  angry  voices  of 
altercation  in  the  yard.  The  bailiffs,  escorted  by  a  cart- 
load of  police,  armed  to  the  teeth,  had  come  and  had  been 
baffled.     Not  a  beast  was  on  the  premises  except  the  huge 


lOO  LISHEEN 

collie  who  snapped  defiance  at  them.  High  words  were 
being  exchanged  when  Maxwell  appeared.  There  was  a 
group  of  young  men  in  the  yard  who  were  jeering  at  the 
bailiffs  and  taunting  them  with  their  ill  success  by  every 
manner  of  word  and  gesture.  The  bailiffs,  on  their  part, 
were  doing  all  in  their  power  to  provoke  an  assault,  well 
knowing  that  it  meant  instant  arrest  and  imprisonment. 
When  they  saw  Maxwell  their  fury  increased,  and  they 
pointed  him  out  to  the  constables. 

"There's  the  fellow  who  abstracted  the  cattle  last  night. 
Take  a  note  of  the  fellow,  sergeant !  Believe  me,  he  has  a 
bad  record!" 

Dispirited  as  Maxwell  was,  he  strolled  over  to  the 
bailiff,  his  hands  stuck  deep  in  his  pockets,  and  with  that 
calm  air  of  independence,  so  utterly  different  from  the 
abjection  or  alternating  fury  of  the  peasantry,  he  said: 

"You  have  been  guilty  of  a  double  slander,  for  which  I 
intend,  at  some  future  day,  to  take  full  and  adequate 
satisfaction.  You  will  please  give  me  your  name  and 
address;  also  the  name  and  address  of  your  employer." 

The  fellow,  taken  aback,  said  something  insolent;  but 
Maxwell  strode  over  to  the  car  where  the  constabulary 
sat,  and  addressing  the  sergeant,  said: 

"You're  here  in  the  name  of  the  law;  and  it  is  your 
business  to  see  that  the  law  is  not  violated.  This  fellow, 
as  you  have  heard,  has  publicly  slandered  me.  I  intend 
to  take  proceedings  against  him.  You  will  please  give 
me  his  name  and  your  own,  for  I  shall  have  to  call  you  as 
a  witness." 

The  sergeant  gave  both  reluctantly.  He  could  not 
quite  reconcile  the  bearing  and  accent  of  Maxwell  with 


CALLED  BACK  loi 

his  faded  clothes,  rough  boots,  and  unkempt  appear- 
ance. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "And  now,  as  you  are  also 
charged,  you  will  give  me  your  name  and  address  and 
occupation." 

"Certainly,"  said  Maxwell.  "My  name  is  Robert 
Maxwell;  my  address  is  Lisheen,  care  of  Owen  McAuliffe, 
farmer;  my  occupation  is  farm  labourer.  Anything 
else?" 

"N  —  no,"  said  the  sergeant,  dubiously;  and  imme- 
diately bailiffs  and  police  left  the  yard,  the  derisive  and 
triumphant  shouts  of  the  men  echoing  in  their  ears. 

Instantly  Maxwell  became  their  hero.  His  evasion  of 
the  bailiffs  or  their  spies  the  evening  before;  his  cool,  in- 
dependent manner  both  to  these  dread  myrmidons  of  the 
law,  and  to  the  police,  marked  him  off  as  one  of  a  superior 
class,  and  yet  left  them  as  puzzled  about  his  character  or 
antecedents  as  before. 

"Begor,  he's  no  desarter,"  said  Pierry,  who  was  also 
thoroughly  ashamed  of  his  drunken  bout  the  evening 
before,  and  was  anxious  to  make  reparation  for  his  rude- 
ness, "or  else  he'd  never  have  faced  the  peelers  as  he  did. 
He's  not  in  the  Hue  and  Cry,  that's  sartin!" 

"I  wish  we  had  a  few  more  like  him  in  the  counthry," 
said  another  admirer.  "The  peelers  and  the  bailiffs 
would  meet  their  match.  See  now,  how  they  shivered 
before  him.  Begobs,  they'd  have  clapped  the  handcuflfs 
on  us  before  we  could  say  'thrapsticks!'" 

"That's  thrue  for  you,  begor,"  said  another.  "You'd 
be  on  the  side-car  now,  an'  in  Thralee  gaol  to-night,  if 
you  hadn't  kep'  your  distance." 


I02  LISHEEN 

But  all  these  eulogiums  were  lost  on  Maxwell.  He  had 
made  up  his  mind  definitely  that  this  business  should  end, 
then  and  there,  for  him.  And  he  began  to  be  conscious 
of  a  strange  chill  and  alternate  flushing,  that  made  him 
think  of  the  possibility  of  the  recurrence  of  the  rheumatic 
fever  from  which  he  had  already  suffered  twice. 

"And  imagine,"  he  thought,  "to  be  seized  with  sick- 
ness here!  My  God!  what  a  frightful  prospect.  I  must 
quit  with  this  insane  idea  and  with  these  good  people  at 
once." 

He  lingered,  however,  until  the  young  men,  who  had 
gathered  in  from  the  neighbouring  farms  to  help,  had 
dispersed;  and  it  was  only  after  the  midday  meal  that  he 
broke  his  resolution  to  the  family.  They  were  deeply 
grieved  and  genuinely  sorry.  He  had  crept  into  their 
hearts  by  his  quiet,  gentle  ways,  until  they  began  to  regard 
him  as  "one  of  themselves."  And  now  that  every  kind 
of  trial  was  accumulating  and  pressing  upon  them,  they 
began  to  feel  that  this,  too,  was  to  be  part  of  their  unhappy 
lot,  and,  whilst  they  bent  beneath  it,  they  began  to  feel 
that  it  crushed  out  all  hope.  One  thing,  however,  they 
should  make  clear.  He  had  never,  by  word  or  gesture, 
showed  the  slightest  sign  of  anger  or  disrespect  toward 
them;  and  they  felt  deeply  pained  that  he  should  have  been 
insulted  in  their  home  and  by  their  own  son.  True,  it 
was  in  drink;  but  that  was  no  excuse,  so  they  felt. 

"We're  sorry  from  the  bottom  of  our  hearts,"  said  the 
old  man,  "to  be  partin'  wid  you.  We  never  saw  or  heard 
anythin'  from  you  but  what  was  good  and  gracious.  An' 
shure,  we  thought  you  wouldn't  mind  the  words  of  that 
foolish  bhoy  in  his  dhrink!" 


CALLED  BACK  103 

"I  assure  you,"  said  Maxwell,  somewhat  moved, 
"Pierry's  words  had  nothing  to  do  with  my  resolution. 
I  see  I  have  made  a  mistake;  and  I  want  to  rectify  it  as 
soon  as  possible." 

Pierry,  conscience-stricken,  had  gone  out  into  the  fields. 
He  was  determined  to  meet  Maxwell;  and  to  make  the 
apologies  in  private  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  utter 
in  public. 

"Ef  it  was  them  blagards  up  at  Mike  Ahern's,"  con- 
tinued the  old  man,  "you  shouldn't  mind  them  nayther. 
Shure,  they're  ignorant,  an'  don't  mane  half  what  they 
say." 

"  Believe  you  me,"  said  the  old  woman,  who  was  bitter 
and  angry  in  her  sorrow,  "that  blagard,  Driscoll,  will 
meet  his  match  some  day.  He's  always  wantin'  to  fight 
with  some  wan  or  other." 

"No,  no;  you  quite  misunderstand  me,"  said  Maxwell, 
who  began  to  fear  that  evil  consequences  would  arise  from 
his  departure,  "  these  little  disagreements  have  had  nothing 
to  say  to  my  resolution.  I  see  I  made  a  huge  mistake, 
and  I  want  to  correct  it  as  speedily  as  possible!" 

"Well,  indeed,  it  would  be  more  proper  to  give  you  your 
right  wages  from  the  beginnin',"  said  the  old  man.  "It 
was  not  right  to  expect  you  nor  anny  man  to  work  for 
nothin'." 

Maxwell  saw  that  it  was  useless  to  make  further  ex- 
planations. He  took  down  his  old  valise  that  had  lain 
these  weeks  on  the  top  of  the  dresser,  and  began  to  pack 
in  the  few,  very  few  things  he  possessed. 

The  old  woman  went  about  in  sorrowful  silence;  the 
old  man  had  sat  down  on  the  sugan  chair,  his  head  bent 


104  LISHEEN 

low  between  his  knees.  Debbie,  as  usual,  was  tidying 
around  the  kitchen,  silent,  too,  but  her  face  was  white, 
and  her  hand  trembled. 

When  Maxwell  had  finished  packing,  he  came  forward 
to  say  his  farewells. 

"I  have  to  go,"  he  said  to  the  old  woman,  for  she  alone 
seemed  to  listen,  "but  I  assure  you  I  shall  never  forget  the 
kindness  I  received  in  this  household.  And  perhaps 
some  day  it  may  be  in  my  power  to  repay  it." 

Then  for  the  first  time  the  old  woman  saw  that  he  was 
ill;  for  his  face  was  a  bluish  purple  and  his  teeth  were 
chattering. 

"For  God's  sake,"  she  said,  "if  you  don't  want  to  be 
found  dead  on  the  road,shtop  your  nonsense,  and  set  down." 

But  he  only  shook  his  head,  as  he  touched  her  rough 
palm.  Owen  McAuliffe,  without  looking  up,  grasped 
his  hand,  and  said  nothing.  Maxwell,  with  a  heavy  heart, 
walked  out  through  the  yard.  He  had  passed  the  rough 
straw  carpeting,  and  was  emerging  into  the  field,  where 
Pierry  was  awaiting  him,  when  he  heard  a  footstep  be- 
hind him.     Turning  around,  he  saw  Debbie. 

"I  quite  forgot,"  he  said,  stretching  out  his  hand,  "to 
say  good-bye!     I  was  thinking  of  so  many  things!" 

The  girl  did  not  take  the  proffered  hand,  and  he  stared 
at  her  in  surprise.  There  was  absolutely  nothing  in  her 
appearance  to  attract  the  fancy  for  a  moment.  She  had 
only  the  beauty  of  perfect  health,  and  the  glamour  of 
perfect  innocence  about  her.  There  were  no  tears  in  her 
eyes,  for,  alas!  with  these  toilers  of  the  earth,  every  emo- 
tion is  frozen  at  its  source;  but  her  lower  lip  trembled  as 
she  said,  in  a  low  tone : 


CALLED   BACK  105 

"You  had  no  right  ever  to  come  here!" 

Startled  by  this  sudden  challenge,  Maxwell  did  not 
know  what  to  reply.  Did  this  girl  divine  his  secret 
through  her  womanly  instincts?  Did  she  suspect  some 
love  afifair,  or  disappointment?  Or  did  she  know,  at 
least,  that  he  was  far  removed  from  the  class  to  which 
he  had  stooped  in  his  desire  to  elevate  them  ?  He  could 
not  conjecture;  but  he  said  candidly: 

"You  are  quite  right.  I  should  not  have  come  here. 
But  I  hope  that  at  least  I  have  done  no  harm,  except  to 
myself." 

She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  steadily  upon  his  face,  as  she 
replied : 

"But,  having  come  among  us,  you  have  no  right  now 
to  lave  us!" 

The  words  touched  him.  They  appealed  to  his  honour 
and  to  his  conscience.  It  was  the  higher  call,  which  he 
had  been  on  the  point  of  refusing.   ' 

The  girl  placed  her  hand  on  his  sleeve,  and  said : 

"Come  back!" 

And  he  followed  her,  like  one  who  had  no  other  will,  or 
option.     Pierry's  apology  remained  unspoken. 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  THE   DEPTHS 

It  was  well  for  Maxwell  himself  that  he  obeyed  that 
call.  Somewhat  shamefaced,  he  entered  the  dark  cabin 
again;  and  Debbie,  with  instinctive  politeness,  anticipated 
his  explanation.  She  did  so  with  that  curious  air  of 
assumed  anger,  which  the  Irish  peasant  often  uses  to 
cloak  affection,  or  relieve  the  embarrassment  of  others. 

"Begor,  'twas  a  quare  thing  intircly,"  she  said,  whilst 
she  busied  herself  about  the  kitchen,  "to  allow  that 
angashore  of  a  boy  to  go  on  the  road,  an'  it  pourin'  cats 
and  dogs.  'Tis  little  ye'd  like  yerselves  to  be  sint  out 
in  that  weather." 

"Wisha,  thin,"  said  the  mother,  "an'  sure  'twasn't  we 
sint  him,  but  he  plazed  himself.  An'  sure,  I  towld  him 
he  was  lookin'  as  green  as  a  leek." 

"You're  right,"  said  Maxwell,  "and  I  was  wrong. 
I'm  not  fit  to  travel." 

"Thin,  in  the  name  o'  God,  pull  over  your  chair,  and 
set  down,  and  dhry  yerself.  There,  Debbie,  can't  you 
get  the  poor  bhoy  a  dhrink  of  somethin'  hot?  Sure,  he's 
shivering  like  an  aspin." 

So  he  was.  There  was  a  deadly  chill  all  over  him,  so 
that  he  trembled  and  shook;  and  there  were  alternations 
of  hot  flushes,  when  his  skin  seemed  to  fill  and  burn, 
as  if  it  would  burst.     He  drank  the  milk  slowly,  sipping 

io6 


IN  THE   DEPTHS  107 

it  leisurely,  and  not  objecting  this  time  to  the  "spoonful" 
of  spirits  which  their  charity  had  mixed  with  it.  The  rain 
came  down  in  a  steady,  calm,  persistent  way,  for  it  was 
now  November.  The  little  cabin  looked  darker  than  ever 
from  the  leaden  skies  without.  The  one  cheerful,  grate- 
ful thing  was  the  huge  fire  made  up  of  peat  and  wood, 
which  threw  volumes  of  smoke  up  through  the  broad 
chimney,  and  sent  a  cheerful  glow  around  the  dingy 
kitchen.  The  old  man,  sitting  in  as  close  as  he  could  on 
the  stone  seat,  smoked  in  silence.  Pierry,  in  silence, 
and  with  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  stood  at  the  door, 
the  lintel  of  which  was  on  a  level  with  his  face.  The  old 
woman  was  busy  in  the  bedroom;  and  Debbie,  casting  a 
sharp  look  from  time  to  time  at  Maxwell,  was,  as  usual, 
busying  herself  around  the  kitchen. 

As  the  day  wore  on,  Maxwell  became  worse;  until  at 
last,  as  the  shades  of  night  came  down,  he  expressed  a 
wish  to  go  to  bed.     They  became  very  solicitous. 

"Did  he  ever  get  sick  before?" 

"Yes,  twice,"  said  Maxwell.  "I  had  two  attacks  of 
rheumatic  fever;  and,  to  be  candid,  I'm  afraid  I'm  in  for 
another." 

The  dread  word  "fever"  appalled  them.  The  terror 
of  the  famine  times  and  the  dread  typhus  is  in  the  hearts 
of  the  people  still.  He  must  have  seen  it  written  in  their 
faces;  for  he  instantly  added: 

"  It  is  not  a  malignant  fever,  you  know,  merely  a  fever- 
ish condition  arising  frorn  rheumatism  and  causing  a  high 
temperature." 

They  did  not  understand  him;  but  their  duty  was  plain. 
They  swiftly  decided  to  give  up  to  him  the  only  bedroom 


io8  LISHEEN 

they  had,  with  its  two  great  beds,  until  he  should  recover 
his  health  and  be  himself  again.  He  protested  emphati- 
cally, made  out  and  argued  that  it  was  only  a  cold,  and 
that  it  would  pass  ofif  in  a  day  or  two.  It  was  no  use. 
He  was  ordered  to  bed;  and  all  that  rough  but  generous 
hearts  could  do  was  done  for  him 

That  night,  perhaps,  witnessed  the  climax  of  his  suffer- 
ings and  his  despondency.  He  insisted  on  their  retiring; 
but  he  asked  that  a  candle,  or  paraffin  lamp,  should  be 
left  lighted  by  his  side.  He  knew  there  was  no  sleep  for 
him.  The  terrible  dry  heat  was  stifling  him;  the  well- 
known  agonizing  pains  were  creeping  down  into  the  ex- 
tremities of  his  hands  and  feet;  his  heart  was  beating 
wildly;  he  tossed  restlessly  from  side  to  side  beneath  the 
heavy  bedclothes.  As  the  night  wore  on,  he  became 
worse.  The  burning  heat  became  intolerable.  The 
canopy  of  wood  that  hung  down  low  over  the  bed  seemed 
to  be  crushing  him  beneath  it.  Great  shadows  flickered 
on  the  whitewashed  walls,  and  stretched  up  towards  the 
naked  roof.  Drip,  drip,  came  the  awful  rain  outside,  as 
it  fell  from  the  rotting  thatch  into  the  open  channels. 
Restless,  fevered,  tormented,  somewhat  excited  by  the 
spirits  he  had  drunk,  he  began  to  imagine  all  kinds  of 
dreadful  things  —  that  he  had  been  decoyed  thither,  be- 
trayed, and  left  to  die  in  such  awful  surroundings.  He 
recalled  his  last  illness.  It  was  painful  and  agonizing 
enough;  but  he  remembered  with  a  pang  all  the  delicate 
attention  he  had  received;  the  comfortable,  warm,  luxuri- 
ous bedroom;  the  dainties  on  the  table  near  the  bedside; 
the  scrupulous  attention  of  the  doctor;  the  cool-handed, 
dexterous,    silent,    unobtrusive    attendance    of    the    two 


IN  THE  DEPTHS  109 

skilled  nurses.  He  recalled  the  days  of  his  convalescence; 
the  numerous  visits ;  the  card-plate  well  filled ;  the  presents 
of  fruit;  the  sweetness  of  coming  back  to  life.  And  then 
he  looked  around  him.  The  bleared  and  smoking  lamp 
could  hardly  be  said  to  have  lighted  the  dark  apartment, 
but  it  threw  light  enough  to  reveal  its  misery.  The 
wretched  fireplace  bricked  up  and  whitewashed,  the  dark 
recesses  of  the  open  ceiling,  the  mud  floor,  rough  and  un- 
even and  pitted;  the  tawdry  and  somewhat  hideous  en- 
gravings on  the  walls  —  all  made  a  picture  of  desolation 
so  terrible  that,  coupled  with  his  feverish  condition,  it 
threw  him  into  a  kind  of  delirium,  during  which  he  after- 
wards suspected  he  had  said  many  wild,  incoherent  things. 
He  remembered  but  one.  He  had  been  staring  for  some 
time  in  a  kind  of  blank  inquiry  at  a  rough  representation 
of  the  Virgin  and  Child  that  was  pinned  on  the  cretonne 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Somehow,  in  his  great  agony  and 
desolation,  he  found  a  comfort  here.  And  then,  suddenly 
turning  around,  he  came  face  to  face  with  the  Man  of 
Sorrows,  hanging  on  the  gibbet  of  Calvary,  and  looking 
the  embodiment  of  all  human  suffering,  which  there  had 
culminated  in  one  concentrated  agonizing  death.  Old 
words,  old  thoughts,  heard  long  ago  in  infancy,  came  back 
to  him,  and  the  feeble  murmur  rose  to  his  lips : 

"My  God,  my  God,  why  hast  thou  forsaken  me?" 
When  he  woke  from  a  deep  sleep,  although  it  was 
troubled  with  horrid  dreams,  he  found  himself  in  a  perfect 
bath  of  perspiration.  Sweat  was  dripping  from  every 
pore.  His  hair  was  wet,  as  if  sponged;  and  he  knew 
that  the  bedclothes  were  saturated  through  and  through. 
But  he  felt  quite  light  and  relieved  from  that  dry,  burning 


no  LISHEEN 

heat  that  had  been  torturing  him;  but  when  he  attempted 
to  move  hand  or  foot,  a  terrible  pain  racked  him,  and  he 
dared  not  turn  on  his  wet  couch  from  the  agony  in  his 
shoulder.  The  lamp  had  flickered  out;  but  in  the  gray- 
dusk  he  could  discern  the  form  of  the  old  woman  moving 
around  the  wretched  room.  He  coughed  to  attract  her 
attention;  and  she  came  over. 

"How  are  you,  agragal,^'  she  said,  "after  the  night? 
Sure,  we  wor  throubled  about  you.  Will  you  have  a  dhrop 
of  tay  or  milk  now;  or  will  you  wait  for  your  brekfus'?" 

"I'll  take  it  now,  if  you  please,"  said  Maxwell.  "I've 
perspired  freely  during  the  night." 

"Wisha,  thin,  sure  they  say  that's  the  best  thing  in  the 
wurruld  for  a  could  or  a  faver.  Whatever  is  bad  inside 
comes  out  in  the  sweat,"  said  the  old  woman,  consolingly. 
"Wait,  now,  and  Debbie  won't  be  a  minit  bilin'  the  kittle; 
and  we'll  get  you  a  good  strong  cup  of  tay  with  some 
nourishment  in  it." 

Maxwell  lay  still,  comfortable  but  dreading  the  slightest 
movement;  and  in  a  few  minutes  Debbie  brought  in  the 
tea,  which  he  drank  eagerly.  No  skilled  nurses  in  Dublin 
or  elsewhere  could  equal  the  gentle  and  tender  strength 
with  which  these  poor  women  raised  the  pillows  beneath 
the  sufferer,  when  they  discovered  that  the  least  shock  or 
vibration  was  painful. 

After  some  time  Maxwell  ventured  to  ask : 

"Is  there  a  physician  —  a  doctor  —  near?" 

"Begor  there  is,"  answered  the  old  woman,  "and  as 
clever  a  man  as  there  is  from  here  to  London.  They  say 
the  head  docthors  in  Dublin  are  nothin'  to  him;  and  he's 
the  deuce  an'  all  at  the  fa  vers." 


IN  THE   DEPTHS  ill 

"I  think  it  would  be  well  if  I  could  see  him,"  said  Max- 
well. 

"We  wor  thinkin'  of  that  same  oursel's,"  said  the  old 
woman.  "Sure  he  can't  do  you  anny  harrum,  if  he  don't 
do  you  much  good.  We'll  send  Pierry  by'm  bye  for  the 
red  ticket:  and  he'll  be  here  before  night." 

"The  red  ticket?  What  is  the  red  ticket?"  said  Max- 
well. 

"The  piece  of  paper  the  doctor  must  get  before  he'll 
go  to  poor  people,"  answered  his  nurse. 

"Oh!"  said  her  patient.  "And  must  ye  always  get 
that?" 

"Oh!  faith,  no,"  said  the  old  woman.  "We're  rich, 
if  ye  plase,  bekase  we  have  a  couple  of  acres  of  mountain 
and  bog.  He  wouldn't  come  to  wan  of  us  undher  a 
pound!" 

Another  revelation  that  set  Maxwell  thinking  again. 

In  the  evening  the  doctor  came ;  and  at  once  pronounced 
the  malady  —  rheumatic  fever.  After  feeling  him  all 
over,  and  examining  his  heart  carefully,  the  doctor  said: 

"You  had  this  before?" 

"Yes,  twice,"  said  Maxwell. 

"You  had  medical  attendance,  of  course?" 

"Yes,"  said  Maxwell,  mentioning  the  name  of  a  lead- 
ing Dublin  physician. 

"What?"  cried  the  doctor.  "I  didn't  think  he  kept  up 
his  hospital  practice!" 

"I  wasn't  in  hospital,"  said  Maxwell.  "He  attended 
me  at  my  own  residence." 

A  remark  which  made  the  doctor  draw  back,  and  stroke 
his  chin  thoughtfully,  and  look  dubiously  at  his  patient. 


112  LISHEEN 

"Is  there  any  heart-lesion  as  yet?" 

"Any  what?"  said  the  doctor. 

"Any  lesion  of  the  heart  —  any  dangerous  murmurs?" 
said  Maxwell. 

"  N  —  no,"  said  the  doctor,  completely  puzzled.  "  Look 
here,  young  man,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "you  know  too 
much.  What  the  devil  do  you  know  about  lesions  and 
murmurs?" 

"Not  much!"  said  Maxwell,  wearily,  "but  you  cannot 
help  hearing  of  those  things  from  doctors  and  nurses!" 

When  he  went  into  the  kitchen.  Maxwell  heard  the  doc- 
tor say  aloud: 

"Whom  have  ye  got  here?" 

"Wisha,  a  poor  bhoy,  doctor,  that  came  around  on 
thramp  here  a  couple  of  months  ago!" 

"What's  his  name?" 

"We  never  axed  him;  but  we  hard  him  say  'twas 
Robert  Maxwell." 

"I  see,"  said  the  doctor,  writing  his  prescription  at  the 
kitchen  table,  "I  see.  I'm  ordering  him  into  the  Work- 
house Hospital." 

"Thin  the  faver  is  ketchin'?"  said  the  old  woman. 

"'Tis  nothin'  of  the  kind,"  said  the  doctor.  "No  more 
than  a  cough  or  a  cold.  But  he  can't  have  proper  attend- 
ance here." 

"Begor,  thin,"  said  the  old  woman,  bridling  up,  "av 
all  we  hear  is  thrue,  the  divil  much  of  an  attindance  he'll 
have  there  aither." 

"That's  all  nonsense,  my  good  woman,"  said  the 
doctor.  "Old  women's  talk  and  gossip.  If  I  were  sick 
myself,  I'd  go  into  the  hospital." 


IN  THE  DEPTHS  113 

^'Begor,  thin,  you  may,"  said  the  old  woman.  "But 
onless  the  poor  bhoy  likes  it  himself,  he'll  stop  where  he  is!" 

The  doctor  did  not  reply;  but  went  into  the  room 
again. 

"You  know  the  nature  of  your  malady,"  he  said  to 
Maxwell.  "  You  went  through  it  before.  I  want  to  send 
you  into  hospital  where  you'll  have  proper  care  and  atten- 
tion. These  good  people  have  old-fashioned  prejudices 
against  it;  and  they  want  to  keep  you  here.  As  your 
malady  is  not  contagious,  I  cannot  insist.  Please  your- 
self." 

"What  hospital  do  you  speak  of?"  said  Maxwell,  again 
deeply  touched  by  the  affectionate  interest  of  these  poor 
people. 

"There's  only  one  —  the  Workhouse  Hospital,"  re- 
plied the  doctor.  "But  it  is  well  managed;  and  you'll 
have  every  care." 

"Yes,  an'  if  he  die,  he'll  be  lef  die  without  priesht  or 
minister,  and  be  buried  in  the  ban-field,"  said  the  old 
woman,  coming  in. 

"Here,  I  wash  my  hands  out  of  the  matter,"  said  the 
doctor.  "Of  course,  I'll  come  to  see  you;  but  in  your 
case,  nursing  is  everything." 

Max-well  remained  silent  for  a  long  time.  Then,  sud- 
denly starting  up,  he  said; 

"As  these  good  people  are  kind  enough  to  keep  me, 
I'll  remain  with  them.     The  matter  is  in  higher  hands." 

"All  right,"  said  the  doctor,  going  out.  "Just  let  me 
know  from  time  to  time  how  things  are  going  on.  You'll 
get  that  medicine  and  liniment  and  medicated  cotton  at 
the  dispensary,"  he  said  to  Pierry.     And  going  out  the 


114  LISHEEN 

door,  he  turned  back  suddenly,  and  said  in  an  under- 
tone: 

"He's  no  poor  boy  on  tramp!    Take  my  word  for  it!" 

And  so  Robert  Maxwell  was  now,  for  life  or  death,  in 
the  hands  of  these  unskilled  and  more  or  less  ignorant 
peasants.  He  thoroughly  understood  his  risks;  but  he 
was  content. 

In  the  afternoon  he  dropped  into  a  deep  slumber, 
broken  by  some  fitful  dreams.  When  he  awoke,  the  old 
man  this  time  was  his  nurse.  He  noticed  some  change, 
he  thought,  about  the  bed;  and,  after  a  good  deal  of  mus- 
ing, he  discovered  that  the  sacred  pictures,  which  he  had 
watched  so  keenly  the  night  before,  had  been  removed. 
He  made  the  remark  to  the  old  man. 

"Wisha,  they  thought,  I  suppose,"  he  replied,  "that 
you  mightn't  hke  them.  And  sure,  we  wouldn't  like  to 
interfere  with  you  at  all,  at  all,  in  the  way  of  religion." 

"Would  you  mind  asking  Debbie  to  put  them  back?" 
said  Maxwell. 

"Begor,  no,"  said  the  old  man.  "Sure,  'tis  she  an'  the 
ould  woman  will  be  glad  intirely." 

And  the  pictures  were  put  back. 

This  gave  them  some  encouragement  to  go  further. 
They  had  never  broached  the  subject  of  religion  to  their 
guest,  through  a  sense  of  delicacy  and  reverence  for  his 
own  opinion.  But  now,  his  life  was  somewhat  in  danger; 
and  his  "poor  sowl"  became  an  object  of  much  interest 
and  solicitude. 

"Wisha,  now,"  said  Owen  McAuliffe,  late  in  the  even- 
ing, when  the  bottles  had  come,  and  the  liniments  had 
been  applied  and  the  aching  limbs  of  the  patient  had  been 


IN  THE  DEPTHS  115 

swathed  in  cotton,  "we  do  be  thinkin'  that  perhaps,  as 
you  had  the  doctor,  you  might  also  want  to  have  some 
one  to  say  a  word  or  two  about  your  sowl?" 

"Is  there  any  minister  in  the  neighbourhood?"  asked 
Maxwell. 

"Not  nearer  than  Thralee,  I'm  afeard,"  said  Owen. 
"There  used  to  be  a  church  down  there  where  you  see  the 
tower,  or  ould  castle;  but  the  place  was  shut  up  years  ago, 
and  the  roof  was  sowld." 

Maxwell  remained  silent  again  a  long  time.  At  length 
he  asked: 

"What  kind  of  gentlemen  are  your  priests?" 

"Wisha,  thin,  I  wouldn't  have  mintioned  them,  at  all, 
at  all,  to  you,  av  you  hadn't  spoken  yerself.  But  we  have 
as  nate  and  dacent  priests  as  are  to  be  found  in  any  parish 
in  Ireland." 

"Is  any  of  them  old  —  I  mean,  advanced  in  years?" 

"There  is,  begor,"  said  Owen.  "But  the  quare  thing 
intirely  is,  that  the  ould  man  is  the  cojutor;  and  the  young 
man  is  the  parish  priesht." 

"  How  is  that  ?"  asked  Maxwell.  "  I  thought  it  was  the 
other  way!" 

"And  so  it  ought  to  be;  an'  so  it  ought  to  be.  But  quare 
things  happen  sometimes." 

He  did  not  like  to  proceed  further  with  his  revelations, 
in  presence  of  a  Protestant.     But  Maxwell  persisted. 

"Well,  thin,  to  make  a  long  shtory  short,  it  was  this 
way,"  said  Owen.  "The  ould  man,  a  livin'  saint,  if 
there's  wan  in  heaven,  was  the  parish  priesht  here  twenty 
years  ago,  an'  'tisn't  bekase  I  say  it,  there  never  was  a 
betther,  nor  a  thruer  father  of  his  flock  than  you,  me  poor 


ii6  LISHEEN 

Father  Cosgrove.  Well,  wan  day,  somethin'  turned  up 
between  him  an'  the  bishop.  What  it  was,  we  don't 
know.  Some  say  one  thing,  some  say  another.  Any 
way,  the  poor  priesht  was  silenced,  and  was  sint  away. 
'Twas  a  sad  and  sore  day  for  the  parish.  Thin,  after  a 
while,  he  was  reshthored;  but  he  had  to  go  as  cojutor; 
an'  he  wint.  But  he  had  an  ould  hankerin'  after  the  place 
an'  the  people;  and  he  axed  to  be  sint  back  to  us  as  cojutor, 
where  he  was  formerly  parish  priesht.  To  the  surprise 
of  every  wan,  the  bishop  sint  him  back;  an'  here  he  is, 
an'  the  people  would  kiss  the  ground  undernathe  his 
feet." 

"And  the  parish  priest  —  is  he  old?" 

"Ould?  Yerra,  no;  he's  young  enough  to  be  Father 
Michael's  grandson!" 

"I'll  see  that  man,"  said  Maxwell,  after  a  pause. 
"Would  he  come?" 

"You  may  be  sure  he  will,"  said  Owen  McAuliffe,  in  a 
state  of  high  delight. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ON  THE  SUMMITS 

The  Major  sat  in  his  armchair  beside  his  comfortable 
fire  one  of  those  dead,  dull,  leaden  days  in  November, 
whilst  Maxwell  was  passing  through  his  critical  illness. 
He  had  given  a  gloomy,  sad,  unwilling  consent  to  his 
daughter's  marriage  with  Outram.  He  had  under  great 
pressure,  and  with  great  mental  pain,  abandoned  his  pet 
project  of  Mabel's  marriage  with  Maxwell,  whom  he  now 
gave  up  as  hopelessly  lost;  and  in  this,  as  indeed  in  most 
other  matters,  he  found  he  had  to  submit  to  the  will  of 
his  capricious,  but  very  determined,  child.  He  had  re- 
ceived Outram  into  his  house  as  his  accepted  son-in-law; 
but  he  was  an  honest  old  fellow,  and  found  it  impossible 
to  pretend  to  an  interest  he  did  not  feel,  or  an  affection 
which  he  could  not  simulate.  He  was  tortured  by  two 
bitter  feelings,  which  at  last  neutralized  each  other  —  an 
aversion  to  Outram,  which  he  found  it  hard  to  explain, 
and  honest  anger  against  Maxwell,  for  having  disap- 
pointed him  so  sorely.  But,  as  there  was  no  great  prin- 
ciple involved  where  Outram  was  concerned,  no  rupture 
of  class  distinction,  no  violent  snapping  of  old  and 
cherished  traditions,  he  was  the  more  readily  brought  to 
telorate  him,  than  to  forgive  one  who  had  violated  all  the 
proprieties,  broken  caste,  and  was  the  possible  pioneer 
in  ^  movement  that  would  revolutionize  the  country,  and 

117 


Il8  LISHEEN 

bring  disaster  and  ruin  on  the  dominant,  ascendant  class. 
By  degrees,  he  began  to  regard  Maxwell  as  a  traitor  to  his 
own;  and,  being  an  old  military  man,  to  whom  treason 
was  the  unforgivable  sin,  he  had  finally  determined  to 
abandon  Maxwell,  and  to  allow  Mabel's  marriage  with 
Outram. 

And  yet,  somehow,  he  could  not  quite  reconcile  himself 
to  Outram,  much  less  make  a  friend  or  confidant  of  him. 
There  was  some  strong  feeling  of  repulsion  which  he  could 
not  explain;  and,  being  a  man  of  facts,  who  hated  analysis 
of  any  kind,  he  did  not  trouble  himself  very  much  to  ascer- 
tain where  the  motive  of  dislike  lay  hidden.  It  was  there, 
and  that  was  enough. 

"I  don't  like  the  fellow,  Mab,"  he  would  say,  "that's 
all.  He's  well-looking,  and  all  that;  and,  of  course,  will 
catch  a  girl's  fancy.  But  I  don't  like  him,  that's  all 
about  it." 

Mabel  quoted  his  position  at  the  Castle  and  his  C.  B. 
The  Major  snorted. 

"There's  many  a  cad  at  a  Castle  ball,"  he  said,  "and 
many  a  scoundrel  a  C.  B.  No,  no;  I  don't  mean  to  say 
anything  against  Outram.  I  know  nothing  about  the 
fellow,  except  that  he  flogged  natives  in  Serampoul;  and 
is  always  talking  about  the  'whip  and  the  sop.'     I  don't 

like  that,  even  if  the  Irish  are  d d  scoundrels  and 

Hottentots." 

This  November  evening  the  Major  was  in  a  particularly 
gloomy  mood.  The  dull,  damp  weather  had  brought  on 
his  gout  again.  Outram  was  to  dine;  and  he  had  to  dine 
alone  with  his  betrothed,  because  the  Major  was  on 
"slops"  and  could  not  get  away  from  his  arm-chair.    He 


ON  THE  SUMMITS  119 

was  doubly  impatient  during  that  long  and  tedious  dinner, 
as  he  thought  it;  and  fifty  times  he  asked  the  footman 
when  it  would  be  over.  At  last,  Outram  appeared.  He 
was  slightly  flushed;  but  apparently  cool  and  collected 
as  usual,  as  the  Major  pushed  a  decanter  of  port  and  a 
box  of  cigars  before  him. 

"I  don't  know  if  you  feel  this  beastly  weather  —  this 
muggy,  clammy,  wet  blanket  that  hangs  down  over  this 
confounded  country  these  two  months.  But  it  drives  me 
to  despair,  especially  as  it  develops  this  infernal  gout." 

And  the  Major  shifted  carefully  the  uneasy  foot. 

"You  should  have  gone  abroad  in  October,"  said 
Outram.  "All  the  civilized  portion  of  these  hyperborean 
regions  migrates  to  India,  or  at  least  as  far  as  the  Medi- 
terranean until  April." 

The  Major  glared  at  the  word  "civilized,"  but  said 
nothing. 

"These  countries  are  barely  tolerable  in  summer,  that 
is,  if  you  have  got  cricket  and  tennis,  and  good  weather 
by  the  sea;  but  that  is  always  problematical.  But  in 
winter,  UghP' 

And  Outram  shivered  with  disgust. 

"You  seem  to  find  it  tolerable,"  said  the  Major,  with  a 
slight  attempt  at  sarcasm. 

"Yes,  just  tolerable!"  echoed  Outram,  "You  see, 
between  my  duties  at  the  Castle,  and  looking  up  military 
matters,  which  I  regret  to  say  are  in  a  hopeless  condition, 
and  looking  up  my  estates,  which  are  still  more  hopeless, 
I  have  no  time  to  think  of  the  weather." 

"I  wish  Mabel  heard  him,"  thought  the  Major.  "A 
man  may  say  too  Httle  sometimes." 


I20  LISHEEN 

"I  don't  know,"  continued  Outram,  "how  your  Govern- 
ment could  have  allowed  things  to  drift  into  such  a  ras- 
cally mess  as  you  have  here  in  Ireland.  Why,  there's 
more  respect  for  law  and  life  in  Burmah  than  here." 

"I'm  not  sure  about  the  law,"  said  the  Major.  "But 
as  for  life,  it  is  not  quite  so  bad  as  you  think.  Every 
Englishman  thinks  he  carries  his  life  in  his  hands,  and  is 
walking  among  thugs  in  this  country." 

"And  is  not  that  so?"  said  Outram.  "Would  any 
gentleman  walk  his  estate  unescorted  in  Ireland?" 

"I  know  he  wouldn't:  and  I'm  sure  he  don't,"  said  the 
Major,  who  at  once  placed  himself  on  the  defensive. 
"No  Irish  landlord  ever  saw  the  inside  of  a  tenant's 
cabin  as  yet." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Outram.  "I  suppose  if  he  did, 
they'd  wash  the  place  with  holy  water,  and  throw  out  the 
potatoes  if  his  evil  shadow  rested  on  them." 

"I  see,  Outram,"  said  the  Major,  "you've  brought  home 
your  Indian  ideas.  As  an  old  Indian  myself,  I'd  advise 
every  returned  officer  to  leave  behind  him  everything  but 
his  gold,  his  liver,  and  his  curry-powder." 

"I  cannot  agree  with  you,  sir,"  said  Outram,  who  was 
a  little  more  flushed,  "I  am  convinced  that  if  we  governed 
Ireland  as  we  govern  India,  you  would  have  a  settled 
country  in  twelve  months." 

"You  govern  India  by  the  prestige  of  British  arms," 
said  the  Major,  whose  old  military  pride  was  stirred  by 
the  allusion.  "Clive  and  Napier,  Havelock  and  Gough 
are  the  men  that  are  governing  India  to-day  by  the  aid 
of  — native  jealousies!" 

Outram  by  no  means  liked  this  laudation  of  the  past 


ON  THE  SUMMITS  121 

at  the  expense  of  the  present.  He  thought  he  had  done 
a  fair  share  himself  towards  the  maintenance  of  British 
power  in  the  East. 

"It  is  not  the  ghosts  of  the  past,"  he  said,  "but  the  men 
of  the  present  that  hold  the  reins  of  power." 

"The  reins  are  dragged  too  tight  sometimes,"  said  the 
Major.  "  I  saw  things  in  India  the  recollection  of  which 
makes  me  shudder." 

The  Major  had  become  meditative. 

"Ha!  ha!"  said  Outram,  whose  brain  had  become 
clouded  under  too  deep  potations,  "an  old  soldier  to  fear. 
What  would  the  Buffs  say?" 

"It  was  not  the  fear  of  death  or  danger  I  alluded  to," 
said  the  Major,  "although  that  comes  down  on  the  nerves 
of  brave  men  sometimes;  but,  by  Jove,  we  can't  stifle  our 
consciences  altogether." 

"It  was  fortunate  for  us  that  the  founders  of  our  Indian 
empire  had  none,"  said  Outram.  "Consciences  are  all 
right  for  full-dress  church  parade  on  Sunday  morning 
here  and  in  England,  when  you  kneel  on  soft  cu  — 
cushions,  and  hear  the  children  sing  the  Anthem  and  the 
women  look  so  —  so  nice  and  —  dainty,  with  their  hats 
and  gloves  and  pretty  —  pretty  prayer-books.  But,  by 
Jove!  when  you  are  in  the  thick  of  battle,  and  dealing 
with  rascally  natives,  conscience  is  altogether  out  of  place." 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said  the  Major,  mildly. 
He  was  unwilling  to  provoke  a  controversy  now. 

"Look  here.  Major,"  said  Outram,  somewhat  thickly. 

"I'll  listen  to  no  d d  nonsense  about  conjuns.     The 

British  army  would  never  have  conquered  the  world  if 
they  had  conjuns.     Eh?     'Tis  all  d d  nonsense  about 


122  LISHEEN 

humanity  and  lifting  up  fallen  races.  A  Paythan  is  a 
Paythan,  and  an  Irishman  is  an  Irishman  the  world  over. 
And  'tis  the  bizness  of  an  Englishman  to  —  squelch  them. 
It  is,  by !" 

The  Major  was  looking  at  him  with  some  disgust  and 
growing  apprehension,  when  the  footman  entered  and 
presented  a  telegram  on  a  salver.  It  was  from  a  central 
detective  agency  in  the  city,  and  ran  thus : 

"Some  traces  found  of  missing,  and  are  pushing  in- 
quiries rapidly.     Hope  definite  information  in  a  few  days." 

"Look  here,  Major,"  continued  Outram,  too  stupid  to 
notice  the  look  of  pleasure  on  the  Major's  face,  "ther's 
no  use  in  pretending  to  be  what  we  aren't.  God  made 
men  different.  The  lion  is  not  the  skunk;  and  the  tiger 
is  not  the  cobra.  They  won't  sit  down  together  nowise. 
What  does  the  lion  do  when  he  meets  skunk  ?  Squelches 
him.  What  does  the  tiger  do  when  he  meets  cobra? 
Squelches  him.  So,  too,  a  Briton  is  a  Briton;  an'  a  Pay- 
than is  a  Paythan;  and  a  Paddy  is  a  Paddy.  Now,  what 
should  the  Briton  do  to  the  Paythan  and  the  Paddy? 
Squelch  him.  Look,  now,  at  that  fool,  Maxwell!  A 
good  fellow,  but  forgot  himself.     He  forgot  he  was  a 

gen'leman.     Began  to  read  all  about  a  d d  old  fool  in 

Russia  —  Tolstoi ;  and  wanted  to  become  an  Irish  Tolstoi. 
Probably  by  this  time  he's  killed  and  hidden  in  a  Kerry  bog." 

"No,"  said  the  Major,  sententiously,  holding  up  a  tele- 
gram.    "He's  alive.     I've  just  heard  from  him." 

"Ah!"  said  Outram,  with  a  maudlin  laugh,  "too  cute. 
By  Jove!  the  fellow  will  come  out  of  it,  an' I've  lost  my  ring." 

"What  ring?"  said  the  Major,  with  suddenly  aroused 
curiosity. 


ON  THE  SUMMITS  123 

"Nev'  mind!  nev'  mind,  Major!"  said  Outram.  "Bob 
thinks  it  a  big  thing,  he!  he!  —  a  tahsman.  Between  you 
and  me,  'tis  only  one  of  the  seal  rings  every  Persian  wears. 
But  Maxwell  was  too  cute.  The  Maxwells  always  were, 
don'che  know?" 

"I  never  heard,"  said  the  Major,  across  whose  mind 
just  now  a  new  thought,  or  new  temptation,  had  come. 
For  it  had  suddenly  flashed  on  him  that  now,  when  there 
was  a  chance  of  finding  Bob,  there  was  also  a  superb 
chance  of  getting  rid  of  this  fellow  forever.  He  had  only 
to  touch  the  bell  and  say:  "Tell  Miss  Willoughby  we'll 
have  some  tea!"  and  Outram  was  dismissed  ignominiously 
and  forever;  and  perhaps  Bob,  poor  Bob,  would  be  re- 
instated in  his  daughter's  favour.  It  was  a  great  tempta- 
tion; and,  as  the  Major  from  his  rechning  chair  watched 
the  flushed  face  and  the  watery  eyes,  and  heard  the  thick 
speech  of  the  half-drunken  Outram,  the  thought  would 
obtrude  itself: 

"Is  it  not  a  duty  to  Mabel  to  make  her  see  what  is  be- 
fore her?  Married  to  this  fellow.  What  will  her  future 
be?" 

He  put  his  finger  on  the  bell,  and  for  a  long  time  waited 
and  watched.     At  last  he  said : 

"Shall  I  ring  for  tea?" 

"No'  for  me!"  said  Outram,  quickly.  "Good  old  port 
for  me!" 

Then,  after  a  stupid  pause: 

"I  shay.  Major!  Don't  be  taken  in  by  Bob.  The 
Max'ls  were  always  shly  and  treasurous.  Wai'  an'  I'll 
tell  a  shtory." 

He  paused  again  in  his  stupor. 


124  LISHEEN 

"Wha's  it?  A  shtory?  Oh,  yes!  There  was  once  a 
Max'l.  No;  tha'sh  not  it.  There  was  once  a  duel  in 
Scotland.  A  Gordon  was  killed;  and  he  fled.  'Twas 
fair  —  a  fair  fight  between  gen'lemen !  No,  what'm  I 
sayin'?  A  Campbell  was  killed;  an'  a  Gordon  fled. 
'Twas  all  over.     Gordon  —  do  you  un-shtand?" 

"I'm  following  you,"  said  the  Major,  very  angry,  hold- 
ing his  finger  steadily  on  the  beU. 

"Well,  Gor'n  fled.  An'  shtayed  away  for  years.  At 
lasht,  wha's  it?  At  lasht  a  Max'le  found  him,  and  sez: 
'Come  back,  ole  fel',  'tis  all  over  and  forgot.'  Gor'n 
believed  him  and  come  back.     Do  you  undershtan' ? " 

The  Major  nodded,  his  finger  still  on  the  bell.  Far 
away  could  be  heard  the  tinkle  of  a  piano,  very  faint  and 
sweet.  And  now  and  again  the  sound  of  a  footfall,  quiet 
and  subdued,  in  the  hall. 

Outram  opened  his  sleepy  eyes  and  stared  stupidly  at 
the  Major. 

"  Wha'm  I  sayin'  ?  Yesh ;  old  shtory.  Gor'n  came  back. 
Big  meetin'  Sawbath  on's  return.  All  clansh  asshemble. 
'Shut  doors,'  shouted  Max'le,  ' murderer 'sh  here!'  " 

The  Major,  spite  of  his  disgust  and  suspense,  became 
interested. 

"Well?" 

"Well,  whash?  Look  here,  Maj',  ole  fell'  —  you'se 
my  fazzer-in-law  now.  Mabel  is  my  wifesh,  ishenot? 
Yesh;  well,  I  was  saying  whash?" 

"You  were  saying  something  about  Maxwell  and  a 
murderer,"  replied  the  Major. 

"Wash  I?  Yesh.  Well,  Gor'n  was  sheized  and 
hanged,  an'  Max'le  —  the  coward  — " 


ON  THE  SUMMITS  125 

"Go  on!"  said  the  Major. 

"No,"  said  Outram,  in  a  sudden  paroxysm  of  anger 
and  pride.  "No,  I  will  not  go  on!  Who  the  devil  are 
you,  you  ole  fool  —  ?  " 

This  time  the  Major's  finger  pressed  the  gong,  and  a 
footman  appeared. 

"Order  Mr.  Outram's  carriage,  and  at  once,"  he  said, 
with  ill-suppressed  anger. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  footman. 

There  was  no  more  conversation.  But  the  tinkle  of 
the  piano  came  from  afar  off,  very  sweet,  very  tender,  as 
it  spoke  the  thoughts  that  were  uppermost  in  Mabel 
Willoughby's  mind. 


PART   II 


CHAPTER  XII 

CYNIC   AND  HUMANIST 

About  two  or  three  fields  back  from  the  sea,  which 
could  be  seen  glimmering  from  the  heights  above  Lisheen, 
and  situated  on  a  high  knoll,  was  a  mansion,  whose  broad 
pediment,  large  high  windows,  and  stately  porch  were 
indications  of  that  massive  solidity  with  which  country 
houses  were  built  in  Ireland  in  the  latter  years  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  A  terraced  garden  lay  along  the  slope 
fronting  the  sea;  and  behind  the  mansion  a  wood  of  hazels, 
oaks,  and  beeches  formed  the  base  of  a  conical  hill  that 
seemed  to  be  always  blue-black,  even  in  the  summer  suns. 
This  mansion,  restored  from  the  general  ruin  and  dilapida- 
tion that  had  fallen  on  all  such  relics  of  ancient  wealth 
and  splendour  in  Ireland,  was  at  this  time  inhabited  by 
one  of  those  Englishmen  who  have,  of  recent  years,  taken 
up  their  residence  in  remote  places  in  Ireland,  where  they 
reign  like  little  kings.  What  the  motives  or  reasons  are 
that  drive  so  many  excellent  Englishmen  away  from  their 
own  country,  and  even  from  civilization,  to  take  up  their 
abode  in  such  uninviting  surroundings  as  are  to  be  found 
in  the  Clare  or  Kerry  mountains,  or  Connemara  bogs,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  conjecture  did  we  not  know  what  a 
vast  variety  of  influences  are  forever  actuating  human 
minds,  and  driving  men  into  situations  that  seem  to  the 
ordinary    mind    so    very    undesirable.     Perhaps    loss    of 

9  129 


130  LISHEEN 

station  or  of  wealth;  perhaps  cupidity  and  the  desire  to 
utilize  the  hidden  wealth  which  the  blind,  dreaming  Celt 
passes  by  unseen  and  undesired;  perhaps  the  tedium  of 
civilization  and  the  hidden  passion  in  most  men  to  get 
back  to  the  simplicities  of  a  natural  life  —  are  amongst 
the  causes  that  have  brought  about  this  curious  exodus, 
which,  strange  to  say,  seems  to  be  unnoticed.  But  there 
the  strange  fact  remains  that,  in  many  places  along  the 
western  coast,  a  solitary  Englishman  and  his  family  are 
often  the  only  Protestants  in  parishes  of  three  or  four 
thousand  Irish  Catholics;  and,  for  the  most  part,  they 
are  idolized  by  the  people  around.  Having  no  landed 
interest,  they  are  not  concerned  about  dragging  out  the 
vitals  of  the  poor,  farming  population;  they  often  estab- 
lish valuable  industries,  inconceivable  to  the  unenter- 
prising Celt;  they  give  liberal  English  wages;  they  are 
benevolent  and  humane ;  and  they  assume  a  kind  of  feudal 
sovereignty,  which  a  people,  accustomed  to  feudal  tra- 
ditions, most  readily  acknowledge. 

Amongst  these  was  Hugh  Hamberton,  the  gentleman 
who  occupied  the  mansion  on  the  seacoast  described  above. 
He  had  been  in  Ireland  about  three  years;  and  had  already 
secured  a  kind  of  local  kingship  in  this  wild  Kerry  coun- 
try. The  mansion  had  been  refitted  and  refurnished  with 
elaborate  taste  and  at  great  expense;  he  had  a  large  staff 
of  servants,  mostly  English ;  and  he  had  already  created,  in 
the  cottages  and  cabins  around,  a  condition  of  comfort 
and  a  sense  of  independence,  which  to  these  poor  people, 
eternally  struggling  against  poverty,  seemed  too  good  to 
be  real.  "Too  good  to  be  true,"  was  one  of  their  melan- 
choly adages;  and  their  new  conditions  were  so  happy 


CYNIC  AND  HUMANIST  131 

that  they  sometimes  rubbed  their  eyes  to  see  was  it  all  a 
dream ;  or  mournfully  shook  their  heads,  like  sad,  prophetic 
Celts  as  they  were,  and  declared  it  could  not  last. 

Hugh  Hamberton  had  been  a  London  merchant,  and 
had  amassed  an  immense  fortune  by  speculations  and  in 
the  shipping  trade;  and,  like  so  many  Londoners,  he  had 
varied  his  business  anxieties  and  ambitions  by  little  ex- 
cursions into  the  vast  world  of  literature,  which  has  a 
curious  exoteric  attraction  for  many  who  cannot  be 
scheduled  amongst  its  high-priests,  or  even  its  votaries. 
He  numbered  amongst  his  acquaintances  several  very 
distinguished  litterateurs;  and  seemed  to  take  a  special 
delight  in  having  at  his  dinner-table  not  the  great  stars 
of  commerce,  nor  the  leading  hghts  in  politics;  but  the 
successful,  and  even,  more  frequently,  the  struggling, 
poet  or  journalist,  who  was  just  embarking  on  dangerous 
seas.  Rumour  had  it,  that  he  extended  to  the  struggling 
brotherhood  even  more  useful  assistance  than  dinners: 
and  even  once  a  grateful  poet  had  the  courage,  or  hardi- 
hood, to  speak  of  him  as  a  Maecenas  of  literature.  Like 
all  other  literary  patrons,  he  did  venture,  once  or  twice, 
into  the  sacred  precincts;  but  those  vergers  of  the  temple, 
the  reviewers,  asked  him  politely  to  retire.  But  he  kept 
up  his  interest  in  the  craft  to  the  end. 

In  religious  matters  he  had  no  defined  beliefs.  He  pro- 
fessed to  live  the  life  of  Christ,  without  any  attachment 
to  religious  creeds.  One  of  his  reasons  for  seceding 
from  the  Anglican  Church  was  that,  on  a  certain  Sunday, 
he  heard  from  the  pulpit  a  certain  text  from  the  Gospels; 
and  the  preacher,  interpreting  the  text,  declared  that  its 
application  w^as  limited  to  the  Apostles,  who  had  to  do 


132  LISHEEN 

certain  things  in  order  to  break  down,  by  the  sheer  audacity 
of  their  hves,  the  vast  fabric  of  Paganism;  but  that  now, 
when  Christianity  had  conquered  the  world,  it  would  be 
absurd  to  accept  such  teaching  in  its  literalness.  This 
amiable  and  accommodating  theory  was  very  grateful 
to  the  majority  of  the  well-dressed  Christians  present, 
who  had  laid  up  their  treasures  in  Consols,  and  not  in  the 
phantom  Banks  of  Eternity.  But  one  man  arose  from  his 
pew,  pale  with  indignation,  and  walked  down  the  aisle  amidst 
the  startled  congregation.  Next  day  he  called  on  that 
preacher,  and  put  the  pertinent,  or  impertinent,  question : 

"If  what  you  say  is  true,  and  these  words  of  Christ  do 
not  apply  to  any  age  subsequent  to  the  Apostolic,  wherein 
does  Christ  differ  from  Aurelius  or  Epictetus?" 

And  not  receiving  a  satisfactory  reply,  he  did  not  darken 
a  church  door  again;  but  read  the  New  Testament,  and 
Robertson's  (of  Brighton)  Sermons  every  Sunday. 

It  will  be  seen  from  this  that  the  man  had  a  terrible 
taint  in  his  character,  the  taint  of  inability  to  compromise, 
the  sin  of  too  great  sincerity.  And  as  it  is  the  oil  of  com- 
promise that  makes  the  wheels  of  life  revolve  with  smooth- 
ness, it  may  be  supposed  that  Hugh  Hamberton  got  many 
a  rude  shake  and  stumble,  as  he  plunged  along  the  ruts, 
or  rode  over  the  smooth  asphalt  of  life.  It  is  one  of  the 
most  shocking  things  in  this  sad  world  to  see  a  generous, 
large-minded  man  compelled  to  become  cautious  and  pru- 
dent, and  sometimes  even  hardened  and  sceptical.  That 
terrible  "Timon  of  Athens,"  that  still  more  terrible  "Lear," 
show  how  the  bitter  truth  had  sunk  into  the  mind  of  the 
greatest  interpreter  of  humanity  the  world  has  ever  seen. 
And  if  Hugh  Hamberton  did  not  receive  such  rude  shocks 


CYNIC  AND  HUMANIST  133 

as  these  mighty  phantoms  of  Shakespeare's  imagination,  at 
least  he  saw  enough  of  human  nature  to  wish  to  have 
as  httle  as  possible  to  say  to  men  during  the  remainder 
of  his  life.  His  business  relations  showed  him  brutally 
and  indecorously  all  the  seamy  side  of  human  nature; 
once  he  was  savagely  attacked  for  an  innocent  poem  that 
he  had  foolishly  published  in  a  tiny  volume,  and  he  was 
not  very  long  in  discovering  that  the  attack  was  made  by 
a  hungry  poet,  who  had  partaken  largely  of  his  plate  and 
purse.  He  made  no  allowance  for  that  exuberant  sarcasm 
which  must  be  interpreted  as  the  "scorn  of  scorn,"  of 
which  another  poet  speaks.  Finally,  he  was  dishonoured 
by  a  wretched  creature,  a  gentleman  of  fallen  fortunes, 
whom  he  had  rescued  from  poverty,  and  placed  in  a  con- 
fidential position.  This  was  the  last  straw;  and  Hugh 
Hamberton  determined  to  fly  from  civilization,  his  only 
companion  being  the  criminal's  daughter,  who  was  his 
godchild,  and  whom  he  had  adopted  as  ward  and  heiress, 
whilst  her  father  was  paying  in  enforced  exile  the  penalty 
of  his  embezzlements. 

Why  he  had  selected  this  remote  spot  on  the  Kerry 
coast  can  only  be  conjectured  from  what  afterguards 
happened.  Very  probably  during  some  autumn  holiday 
he  had  skirted  this  coast  in  a  steamer,  or  driven  along  its 
splendid  roads  on  an  outside  car.  And  very  probably, 
whilst  his  fellow-passengers  were  listening  to  the  rude 
jokes  or  time-worn  anecdotes  of  the  driver,  he  had,  with 
his  shrewd  English  eye,  seen  in  the  rude  seams  where 
quarrymen  had  blasted  for  road  metal,  or  which  the 
mountain  torrents  had  chiselled  among  the  hills,  indica- 
tions of  mineral  or  stone,  that  might  be  wrought  into 


134  LISHEEN 

something  profitable  or  useful.  For  just  behind  that 
conical  hill  was  seen,  at  the  period  of  which  we  write,  a 
vast  quarry  torn  open  with  pick  and  powder;  and  —  most 
unusual  sight  in  an  Irish  landscape  —  huge  derricks  with 
great  chains  swinging  in  the  air  to  lift  from  the  bowels  of 
the  earth  the  blocks  of  porphyry  and  black  and  green 
marbles  that  were  to  fill  yonder  luggers,  riding  in  the 
ofiing,  for  exportation  to  England.  Rumour,  too,  had  it 
that  iron  ore  had  been  discovered;  and  there  was  a  secret 
whisper,  that  was  heard  only  about  the  firesides  at  night, 
that  Hamberton  had  picked  up  some  heavy  stones  that 
glittered  in  the  sunlight,  and  that  he  had  gone  hastily 
away  from  home  a  few  days  after  the  discovery.  How- 
ever, here  he  was,  the  "masther"  of  this  little  colony,  stern 
but  kind;  exacting  a  full  day's  labour  for  very  liberal 
hire;  and  leading  a  lonely,  solitary  life,  unbroken  save 
for  the  companionship  of  Claire  Moulton,  godchild  and 
ward. 

She,  too,  was  worshipped;  but  in  another  way.  She 
was  worshipped  for  her  extraordinary  loveliness  that 
made  people  cast  down  their  eyes  when  they  first  beheld 
her;  then  worshipped  for  her  bereaved  condition,  that  of 
orphan,  as  they  believed,  an  instantaneous  passport  to 
the  sympathies  of  an  affectionate  people;  finally,  wor- 
shipped because  she  entered  every  cabin,  and  spoke  "like 
one  of  theirsels";  showed  the  women  how  to  cook  and 
knit;  "hushoe'd"  the  baby  and  rocked  the  cradle;  and 
did  all  manner  of  kindly  ofiices  to  the  sick.  And  they 
worshipped  her  all  the  more,  because  she  was  English 
and  a  Protestant;  and  because,  disdaining  the  gewgaws 
of  London  fashion,  she  dressed  in  the  plain  skirt  and 


CYNIC  AND  HUMANIST  135 

bodice  of  the  natives;  and,  when  she  went  abroad,  never 
wore  but  that  most  becoming  of  all  outdoor  dresses,  the 
hooded  Irish  cloak.  True,  she  yielded  to  feminine  vanity 
so  far  that  the  lining  of  her  hood  was  daintily  quilted  in 
red  or  blue  satin;  but  that  was  all.  And  she  wore  no  head 
covering  but  her  hair.  One  companion  she  had,  an  old 
nurse,  who  acted  as  duenna,  and  watched  over  her  with 
incessant  and  affectionate  attention;  and  who  could  never 
understand  how  one  so  delicately  reared  could  fraternize 
so  easily  and  so  warmly  with  these  "dirty  Hirish."  And 
the  silence  of  Ireland  oppressed  her.  She  yearned  for 
the  roar  of  London,  and  the  soldiers,  and  the  parks. 

Withal,  Hugh  Hamberton  was  a  melancholy  man. 
All  men  are  melancholy  who  think  deeply,  or  who  suffer 
deeply,  especially  if  they  still  hold  in  reverence  that 
abstraction  "humanity,"  whilst  they  have  come  to  loathe 
their  fellowmen.  He  cannot  be  said  to  have  loved  any- 
thing except  his  godchild;  and  this  w^as  a  pure,  ethereal 
love,  where  there  was  not  a  particle  of  sense  or  self;  only  a 
perfect,  disinterested  affection,  that  sought  the  happiness 
and  well-being  of  the  beloved,  and  no  more.  The  sole 
object  that  would  redeem  his  life  from  absolute  failure 
was  her  happy  settlement  in  life.  There  was  a  kind  of 
secondary  duty  towards  these  poor  serfs  that  surrounded 
him.  But  this  was  paramount,  and  then  ?  And  then  — 
a  certain  thought  would  rise  up  before  him,  at  first  vague 
and  easily  put  aside;  then  recurring  with  irritating  per- 
sistence, until  it  became  at  last  an  obsession.  But  he  hid 
it  away,  away  even  from  himself.  He  would  wait,  wait. 
"Sufficient  for  the  day  is  its  own  evil." 

He  had  met  the  old  priest.  Father  Cosgrove,  in  one  of 


136  LISHEEN 

the  cabins  during  a  hurried  visit;  saluted  him  in  cold, 
English  fashion,  and  no  more.  Then  he  made  a  few 
cautious  inquiries  of  his  workmen,  afraid  to  touch  too 
closely  on  that  most  delicate  topic  of  religion,  with  the 
result  that,  some  weeks  later,  he  asked  the  priest  to  his 
house.  Father  Cosgrove,  in  his  simple,  humble  way, 
trying  to  be  "  all  things  to  all  men,"  accepted  the  invitation. 
It  was  winter  time,  and  a  huge  fire  was  burning  in  the 
splendid  library,  whose  high  windows  let  in  a  pale  sun- 
light from  east  and  south.  It  was  a  large  room,  and 
literally  crammed  with  books,  exquisitely  bound,  from 
the  floor  to  the  heavy  moulded  cornices  that  ran  beneath 
the  ceiling.  The  fireplace  was  framed  in  white  marble, 
richly  cut  into  all  kinds  of  Cupids  and  Bacchuses  and 
grapes  and  roses  —  ancient  splendour  and  modern  luxury 
side  by  side. 

After  a  few  commonplace  remarks,  Hamberton  suddenly 
stood  up,  and  standing  on  the  hearth  rug,  his  hands  be- 
hind him,  he  shot  these  questions  at  the  priest  in  a  quick, 
peremptory  manner: 

"I  understand,  sir,  that  you  were  at  one  time  rector  or 
parish  priest  here?" 

"Yes,  yes,  at  one  time,  long  ago,  long  ago,"  said  the 
priest,  repeating  himself  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  very  little 
consequence  to  any  one. 

"You  were  silenced?"  said  his  examiner. 

"Well,  yes,  yes,  yes;  there  was  a  little  misunderstand- 
ing, a  little  misunderstanding"  —  and  he  waved  his  hand 
in  the  air,  as  if  to  blow  it  away. 

"  Then  you  recommenced  life  in  your  old  age  as  curate, 
I  understand?" 


CYNIC  AND   HUMANIST  137 

"I  did,  I  did,  I  did.  No  responsibilities,  you  know;  no 
responsibilities!" 

"And  after  a  time  you,  at  your  own  request,  were  sent 
back  here  as  curate,  and  in  a  subordinate  position,  where 
you  had  before  to  suffer  disgrace?" 

"  'Twas  my  own  wish,  my  own  wish,"  said  the  old  priest, 
shuffling  in  his  chair.  "I  wanted  to  see  the  old  people 
before  they  passed  away  forever;  I  wanted  to  see  the 
boys  and  girls  I  had  married,  and  to  see  their  little  families 
grown  up  about  them;  I  wanted  to  see  the  little  children 
I  baptized,  now  young  men  and  women;  I  wanted  to  see 
the  old  mountains  and  the  glens  and  to  run  down  here 
sometimes  to  hear  the  sea  talking.  And  so  the  bishop 
took  pity  on  me,  and  sent  me  back  without  any  care  or 
trouble,  without  any  care  or  trouble."  And  he  waved 
his  hand  again  in  the  air. 

"That's  very  good,"  said  Hamberton;  "but  you  have 
come  back  in  a  manner  that's  humiliating  to  human 
nature;  and  I  believe  you  are  on  a  much  lower  stipend, 
and  have  all  the  rough  work?" 

"As  to  the  humiliation,"  replied  the  old  man,  "it  is 
just  about  what  I  deserved,  neither  more  nor  less.  As  to 
the  stipend,  I  have  seven  pounds  a  year  and  what  the  poor 
people  choose  to  give  me ;  and  I  want  for  nothing  —  ab- 
solutely nothing,  absolutely  nothing.  As  to  the  work, 
I  have  a  purty  boy  of  a  parish  priest,  who  finds  every  kind 
of  excuse  for  doing  what  I  should  do.  This  Sunday  he 
wants  to  see  a  certain  person  in  the  outlying  chapel,  and 
he  must  go;  next  Sunday  he  wants  to  see  the  school- 
master, and  he  must  go;  next  Sunday  he  hears  there's  a 
leak  in  the  roof,  and  he  must  go.     He's  just  like  the  people 


138  LISHEEN 

in  the  Gospel,  that  found  an  excuse  in  buying  farms, 
marrying  wives,  etc.;  only  that  they  excused  themselves 
for  not  going;  and  he  invents  excuses  for  going,  and 
sparing  me  the  trouble." 

Hamberton  looked  at  the  old  man  long  and  earnestly. 
There  was  nothing  very  attractive  in  his  appearance. 
He  was  about  the  same  age  as  Hamberton  himself,  grizzled 
too  in  his  hair,  and  wrinkled  in  his  cheeks;  but  there  was 
a  strange,  quiet,  serene  look  on  his  pale  face  and  in  his 
fearless  eyes  that  Hamberton  never  saw  before. 

"But,"  said  Hamberton  at  length,  "I  understand  you 
have  to  get  up  at  night  and  go  long  distances  in  snow  and 
storm,  and  face  all  weathers,  and  every  kind  of  disease  — " 

"There  you  are  again!"  said  Father  Cosgrove;  "not  a 
bit  of  it!  My  parish  priest  has  left  strict  orders  to  his 
housekeeper,  on  pain  of  dismissal,  to  send  every  night 
call  to  his  room.  He  says  he  can't  sleep;  and  he'd  rather 
be  out  in  the  fine  fresh  air  at  night.  Once  or  twice  I 
thought  to  beat  him,  but  he  was  out  the  front  door  before 
I  was  on  the  stairs.  I  sometimes  tell  him  he'll  be  damned 
for  telling  lies!" 

"He  won't!"  said  Hamberton,  emphatically.  "Would 
to  God,  if  there  be  a  God,  that  all  men  were  such  liars 
as  he!" 

He  had  become  suddenly  excited,  and  had  lost,  in  an 
instant,  and  to  the  old  priest's  consternation,  the  equa- 
nimity he  had  up  to  this  manifested.  He  turned  almost 
fiercely  on  the  old  man,  as  he  asked: 

"Tell  me,  are  there  many  more  men  like  that  in  this 
country?" 

"Oh,  yes,  oh  yes;  lots,  lots!"  said  the  priest,  "every- 


CYNIC  AND  HUMANIST  139 

where;  everywhere!"  And  he  made  circles  in  the  air 
with  his  hands. 

"I  haven't  seen  them,"  said  Hamberton.  ^'Up  to  this 
moment  I  beheved  that  horses  and  dogs  were  the  nobihty 
of  creation." 

"Well,  horses  and  dogs  are  good,  too,"  said  this  modern 
St.  Francis.  "Everything  is  good  that  the  good  God  has 
made  — " 

"Except  men!"  said  Hamberton,  bitterly. 

The  priest  was  silent.  He  had  never  heard  these 
opinions  before. 

"Look  here,  sir,"  said  Hamberton,  pointing  his  finger 
at  the  priest,  "what  you  say  may  be  true.  I'm  not  in  a 
position  to  deny  it.  But  I  have  walked  through  life,  as 
through  a  forest,  where  I  had  to  pick  my  every  step  for 
snares  and  pitfalls;  and  where  every  moment  I  might 
expect  to  hear  the  snarl,  or  feel  the  bite,  of  a  wild  beast. 
In  the  beginning  I  opened  my  heart  to  men;  but  I  had  to 
shut  it  with  a  snap.  I  wanted  to  be  generous,  to  give 
freely  and  royally;  I  found  I  was  despised  as  a  fool.  Men 
took  my  gifts  and  laughed  at  the  donor.  I  brought  a 
wretched,  scraggy,  half-starved  tatter-de-malion  —  but  a 
genius  —  into  my  house,  clothed  his  nakedness,  fed  his 
hunger,  and  opened  to  him  my  purse.  The  frozen  wretch, 
when  he  had  thawed,  bit  me.  But  —  let  me  not  do  a 
class  an  injustice.  It  was  only  amongst  the  lower  classes, 
as  they  are  called,  that  I  received  gratitude;  and  hence 
I  hold  that  it  is  civilization  that  makes  men  selfish  and 
brutal.  There  is  honour  among  thieves;  there  is  love 
and  kindness  among  street- walkers.  Did  you  ever  read 
De  Quincey?" 


I40  LISHEEN 

"No,"  said  the  old  priest.  "I  haven't  read  much  at 
all,  at  all!" 

"Well,  you  will  read  in  his  Conjessions  one  of  the  most 
wonderful  examples  of  fidelity  and  truthfulness  ever  re- 
corded, which  shows  that  the  higher  you  advance  in  civil- 
ization, the  more  hardened  and  brutal  men  become;  till 
deception  and  lying  are  the  recognized  virtues  of  good 
society;  and  the  lower  you  go,  the  more  Godlike  men  be- 
come, until,  as  I  say,  the  horse  and  the  dog  are  the  nobility 
of  creation." 

The  old  man  was  silent.  These  were  strange  and 
ominous  sayings.  Hamberton  was  watching  him  closely 
out  of  half-shut,  angry  eyes. 

"I  think,"  said  the  priest  at  last —  "No,"  he  said  at 
once,  as  if  checking  himself  on  the  verge  of  an  admission 
or  an  avowal,  "I  shouldn't  think  at  all  on  these  matters. 
They  are  beyond  me!" 

"But  they  are  your  experience,  too?"  queried  Ham- 
berton. 

"Oh,  not  at  all;  not  at  all!"  said  the  priest.  "I  find 
everybody  good  and  kind  and  generous.  Look  at  your- 
self, now!  You  never  saw  me  before.  Yet  you  intro- 
duce me  into  this  magnificent  house,  and  speak  to  me  as 
an  equal." 

Hamberton  would  have  smiled  at  this  naivete.  He 
had  never  met  anything  like  it  before.  But  he  was  too 
much  in  earnest;  and  too  puzzled  about  this  phenomenon. 

There  was  an  awkward  silence.  Then  the  priest,  as  if 
a  sudden  idea  had  dawned  on  him,  said  with  an  air  of 
triumph : 

"I  have  it.     It  is  because  you  were  great  and  wealthy 


CYNIC  AND   HUMANIST  141 

and  gifted  that  men  envied  you  and  coveted  what  you 
have.  If  you  had  nothing,  men  would  love  you.  Look 
at  me!  I  have  no  brains;  no  position;  no  talents.  I  am 
down  below  most  poeple.  And  they  look  down  on  me 
and  love  me.  I  have  no  money,  no  lands  —  only  a  few 
books  and  these  old  clothes;  and,  therefore,  they  have 
nothing  to  covet.  If  you  have  all  that  the  human  heart 
can  desire,  you  must  not  complain  because  men  would  like 
to  have  a  little  share." 

"But  my  horse  and  my  dog  don't  want  a  share,"  replied 
Hamberton.  "They  are  content  to  toil  for  me,  to  defend 
me,  to  love  me  for  myself  —  for  what  I  am,  not  for  what 
I  have." 

"True,  true,"  said  the  old  priest.  "Everything  is 
good;  everything  is  good  that  the  good  God  has  made!" 

"Except  men!"  repeated  Hamberton. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head,  and  rose  up  to  depart. 

"You  will  come  again?"  said  Hamberton. 

The  priest  was  silent.  He  did  not  know  what  to  make 
of  this  strange  man. 

"You'll  find  me,  perhaps,  somewhat  different  from  what 
you  expect,"  said  Hamberton.  "Come  for  your  people's 
sake!" 

"I  will  come,"  said  the  priest,  about  to  leave. 

"One  moment,"  said  Hamberton,  his  hand  on  the  bell- 
rope.     "You  must  see  my  ward." 

"Tell  Miss  Claire  to  step  here  for  a  moment,"  he  said, 
when  the  footman  appeared. 

Claire  Moulton  was  then  hardly  more  than  a  child. 
She  was  a  little  more  than  fifteen  years  old;  but,  being  of 
a  dark  complexion  in  hair  and  eyes,  she  looked  somewhat 


142  LISHEEN 

older.  And  she  had  acquired  all  the  manners  of  a  young 
mistress  of  the  household  —  quiet,  self-possessed,  and 
sometimes  imperious.  Her  great  beauty  was  set  off,  or, 
as  some  thought,  lessened,  by  a  quick  gleam  in  her  great 
brown  eyes,  that  might  be  pride,  or  temper,  or  genius. 
With  this  sudden  gleam  her  great  eyes  shone  when  she 
appeared  to  answer  her  guardian's  summons.  She  had 
never  spoken  to  a  priest  before,  and  had  been  trained  by 
her  English  nurse  to  all  manner  of  ugly  preconceptions 
and  prejudices  against  everything  Catholic.  Neverthe- 
less, when  she  approached  the  old  man,  she  glanced 
quickly  at  him;  and  when  her  guardian  said: 

"I  want  to  introduce  you,  Claire,  to  Mr.  Cosgrove!" 
she  bowed.  The  old  priest,  in  his  simple,  kindly  way, 
stretched  out  his  hand.  She  seemed  for  a  moment  sur- 
prised; but  instantly,  and  with  great  gravity,  she  raised 
the  priest's  hand  to  her  lips.  Hamberton  could  hardly 
speak  with  astonishment. 

That  evening,  before  dinner,  as  the  two  stood  by  the 
fire  in  the  drawing-room,  he  suddenly  asked  her: 

"Why  did  you  kiss  the  old  priest's  hand  to-day,  Claire?" 

"  Because  he  is  a  good  man,  and  he  does  not  know  it," 
she  said,  looking  him  full  in  the  face. 

"You  never  kissed  me?"  he  said  reproachfully. 

She  put  her  arm  around  his  neck,  and  drew  down  his 
face  to  hers. 

"You  are  a  good  man,  too,"  she  said,  "and  you  don't 
know  it." 

The  strong  man,  his  heart  hardened  and  annealed  from 
the  hard  blows  of  the  world,  burst  into  silent  weeping;  but 
that  was  the  happiest  dinner  he  had  had  for  many  a  long  day. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A   NEW   SAINT 

The  acquaintance,  thus  auspiciously  commenced, 
ripened  into  something  hke  intimacy.  There  was  hardly 
a  day  that  called  the  old  priest  away  from  his  presbytery 
which  did  not  see  him  installed  by  that  fireside,  or  wander- 
ing for  a  leisured  hour  or  more  about  the  grounds,  which 
Hamberton  had  now  laid  out  with  great  taste  and  at  no 
little  expense.  And  different  as  these  two  men  were  in 
temperament  and  education,  they  seemed  to  have  some 
affinity  with  each  other.  Perhaps  each  supplied  the 
other's  defects.  Perhaps  Hamberton  saw  in  this  guileless 
man  the  simple,  unsophisticated,  disinterested  character 
he  had  so  long  sought  for  in  vain  in  the  world  of  London. 
And  to  the  priest  there  was  quite  a  novel  attraction  in 
this  strange  being,  who  seemed  to  his  simple  mind  to  have 
been  dropped  from  another  planet,  so  different  were  his 
habits,  thoughts,  principles  from  everything  to  which  the 
priest  had  been  heretofore  accustomed.  And  although 
sometimes  the  latter  shrank  from  expressions  that  seemed 
to  him  irreligious  and  even  blasphemous,  he  imputed  the 
evil  to  ignorance  or  inexperience;  and  here  under  his 
eyes  were  ample  compensations  for  the  crudities  and 
irregularities  that  seemed  part  of  Hamberton's  education. 
For  now  "the  desert  had  blossomed  like  a  rose."  Where 
a  few  years  ago  was  a  barren  and  blighted  landscape, 

143 


144  LISHEEN 

wintry  looking  even  in  summer,  and  fronting  a  cold  and 
barren  sea,  was  now  a  smiling  upland,  gay  with  the 
colours  of  many  flowers,  and  feathered  with  the  plumes 
of  handsome  trees.  And  where  there  had  been  but 
wretched  hovels,  mud-walled  and  thatched  with  rotten 
straw,  and  surrounded  with  putrid  pools  of  green,  fetid 
water,  were  now  neat  cottages,  stone-built,  red-tiled, 
each  bright  in  front  with  carpets  of  flowers,  and  glowing 
in  the  rear  with  all  kinds  of  fruit  and  vegetables.  And 
all  day  long  to  the  sound  of  the  sea  rang  the  clink  of  steel 
upon  marble;  and  the  hiss  of  the  steam  which  swung  the 
huge  derricks  around  rose  like  the  fall  of  the  surf  on 
the  shingle  and  sand  beneath.  Tourists,  rushing  by  to 
Glenbigh  or  Waterville,  stopped  their  cars,  and  rubbed 
their  eyes,  and  asked  incredulously:  ''Is  this  Ireland?" 
And  many  a  pale-faced  and  withered  and  shrunken  Ameri- 
can girl,  home  for  the  holidays,  bade  farewell  with  tears 
in  her  eyes  to  this  little  paradise;  and  looked  across  the 
darkening  ocean  with  dread  forebodings  in  her  heart  of 
the  life  that  was  before  her  in  the  gehennas  of  Pittsburg 
or  Chicago. 

Claire  Moulton,  too,  was  a  bright  and  peculiar  feature 
in  this  picture.  Scarcely  emerged  from  childhood,  she 
retained  a  certain  wilfulness  of  character,  a  kind  of  girlish 
despotism,  which  gave  her  unquestioned  power  over  these 
primitive  people,  who  feared  her  for  her  imperiousness, 
loved  her  for  her  goodness,  smiled  at  her  impetuosity,  so 
very  like  their  own  impulsive  and  emotional  ways.  She 
endeared  herself  to  them  more  particularly,  because  she 
never  stood  aloof  from  them,  but  walked  into  their  cot- 
tages with  the  familiarity  of  an  equal;  gave  her  little 


A  NEW  SAINT  145 

impetuous  orders,  which  she  helped  to  carry  out;  scolded 
the  women  for  untidiness  or  indolence;  and  challenged 
the  men  if  ever  they  were  remiss  in  their  duties.  Once, 
when  a  rude  workman  uttered  a  profane  word  in  her 
presence,  she  slapped  him  across  the  face;  and  every  one 
said  she  was  right.  The  poor  fellow  came  shamefaced 
to  the  hall  door  in  the  evening,  and  made  a  most  abject 
apology. 

It  was  this  vein  of  impetuosity  in  her  character  that 
made  Hamberton  somewhat  anxious  about  her.  A  firm 
believer  in  the  inviolable  laws  of  heredity,  he  knew 
there  was  an  oblique  line  somewhere  in  this  very  beautiful 
and  perfect  picture;  and  sometimes  he  caught  himself 
watching  her  as  she  read  or  worked  by  the  fireside  at  night, 
or  stooped  over  her  manuscripts,  copying  or  inditing 
strange,  wild  verses,  that  to  him  seemed  incantations. 

She  was  often,  too,  the  subject  of  much  intimate  con- 
versation between  Hamberton  and  hfs  new  friend.  For, 
although  the  latter  was  absolutely  guileless  and  ignorant 
of  the  world  and  its  ways,  there  was  a  shrewd  power  of 
discernment  in  his  character  —  that  kind  of  intuition 
which  makes  children  know  instinctively  who  are  enemies 
and  who  might  be  friends.  Hence,  Hamberton  spoke 
often  to  the  priest  about  the  girl;  and  as  she  grew  into 
womanhood,  and  all  the  strong  features  of  her  character 
became  more  pronounced  and  developed,  his  anxiety 
increased,  and  she  became  a  more  frequent  subject  of 
conversation. 

The  Sunday  evening  on  which  Bob  Maxwell  had 
driven  up  the  cattle  to  the  glen  in  the  hills,  the  three, 
Father   Cosgrove,   Hugh  Hamberton,   and   Claire,   were 


146  LISHEEN 

seated  around  the  fire  in  the  library.  The  weather  was 
cold  and  drizzling  without,  and  although  there  was  no 
cold  within  doors,  the  sight  of  the  fire  in  the  dark  evenings 
was  cheerful.  They  had  been  talking  of  many  things; 
and  just  then  the  name  of  General  Gordon  turned  up,  as 
having  come  in  some  more  prominent  way  than  usual 
before  the  British  public. 

"Voila  un  homineP^  said  Hamberton,  enthusiastically. 
"Yes,  Mr.  Cosgrove,  Gordon  does  not  bring  me  around 
to  your  optimism,  but  the  existence  of  one  such  man 
redeems  the  race.  Look  now,  if  Gordon  were  in  your 
Church,  you'd  have  the  whole  tribe  of  pious  Catholics 
running  after  him;  and  you  would  canonize  him,  and  call 
him  St.  Gordonius,  and  put  him  into  stained-glass  win- 
dows, and  turn  him  into  marble  statues,  with  a  helmet 
and  sword  and  breastplate,  with  Satan  wriggling  beneath 

his  feet,  and  representing  all  the  d d  money-grubbers 

through  the  world.  Yes;  your  Church  is  a  wise  Church. 
She  knows  her  best  men;  and  honours  them.  Macaulay 
was  generally  silly;  but  he  was  right  there!" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Father  Cosgrove,  meekly.  "Some 
of  our  saints  were  never  discovered  until  years  after  their 
death.  And  some  got  pretty  rough  handling  during 
their  lives.     But  that  is  only  as  it  ought  to  be!" 

"How  is  that?     I  don't  understand,"  said  Hamberton. 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  the  priest,  who  was  always  most 
unwilling  to  enter  into  religious  matters  with  a  man 
whose  training  had  not  fitted  him  to  understand  them. 
"What  does  Miss  Moulton  think?" 

"I  have  but  one  hero  and  one  heroine,"  said  Claire. 
"And  they  bear  out  your  contention,  Father.     General 


A  NEW  SAINT  147 

Gordon  and  Joan  of  Arc,  We  English  burned  the  latter. 
She  was  troublesome  and  they  turned  her  into  bone-ashes. 
As  to  Gordon,  we  shall  probably  erect  a  statue  to  him,  if 
we  can  find  a  niche  somewhere  between  tallow-chandlers 
and  soap-manufacturers." 

"There,  there,"  said  Hambcrton.  "Claire  must  say 
something  spicy.  By  the  way,  you  never  met  Gordon?" 
said  Hamberton  to  the  priest. 

"Oh,  never,  never,"  said  Father  Cosgrove.  "I  was 
never  out  of  Ireland." 

"No,  but  Gordon  was  here,"  said  Hamberton.  "He 
was  around  here  touring  I  suppose;  but  he  kept  his  eyes 
open,  and  he  saw  many  more  things  than  fifty  purblind 
English  statesman  would  perceive  in  twenty  years.  Where 
have  you  put  that  letter,  Claire?" 

Claire  Moulton  went  over  to  a  table,  and  picked  up  a 
scrap-book,  in  which  she  had  pasted  every  little  picture 
or  poem  or  extract  she  deemed  interesting. 

"Read  it  for  us,  Claire,"  said  her  guardian. 

And  Claire  read  slowly  and  with  emphasis  that  famous 
letter  of  General  Gordon's,  containing  his  bitter  comments 
on  the  agrarian  system  in  Ireland ;  and  suggesting  remedies 
which  only  now,  and  slowly  and  with  reluctance,  are  being 
adopted.  She  read  over  twice,  as  if  to  imprint  the  words 
on  the  memory  of  her  hearers,  the  lines: 

"'In  conclusion,  I  must  say,  from  all  accounts  and  from 
my  own  observation,  that  the  state  of  our  fellow-country- 
men in  the  parts  I  have  named  is  w^orsc  than  that  of  any 
people  in  the  world,  let  alone  Europe.  I  believe  that 
these  people  are  made  as  we  are;  that  they  are  patient 
beyond  belief;  but,  at  the  same  time,  broken- spirited  and 


148  LISHEEN 

desperate,  living  on  the  verge  of  starvation  in  places  in 
M^hich  we  would  not  keep  our  cattle.  The  Bulgarian, 
Anatolian,  Chinese,  and  Indians  are  better  off  than  many 
of  them  are.  The  priests  alone  have  any  sympathy  with 
their  sufferings;  and  naturally  alone  have  a  hold  over 
them.'" 

When  she  finished,  Hamberton  was  looking  steadily 
into  the  fire,  a  deep  frown  on  his  handsome  features. 
Father  Cosgrove  was  softly  crying.  She  took  the  scrap- 
book  over  and  laid  it  aside  on  the  table. 

"There,  mark  you,"  said  Hamberton,  as  if  he  were 
arguing  against  an  adversary,  "that's  no  partisan,  no 
politician.  But  we  have  seen  the  thing  with  our  own  eyes 
—  'man's  inhumanity  to  man'  —  injustice  and  cruelty 
legalized." 

"  Well,  no  matter,  no  matter,"  said  the  priest.  " '  Blessed 
are  they  that  suffer  persecution' — there,  I  forget  the  rest!" 

"I  have  no  patience  with  that  kind  of  thing,  Mr.  Cos- 
grove,"  said  the  Englishman,  angrily.  "That  kind  of 
religion  doesn't  appeal  to  me.  No  man  is  bound  to  lie 
down  and  get  himself  kicked,  when  he  can  stand  up  and 
punish  his  aggressor.  It  seems  to  me  that  your  religion 
has  emasculated  this  people,  and  turned  them  from  a 
nation  of  fighters  into  a  race  of  whimpering  slaves." 

"That's  what  old  Ossian  said  to  St.  Patrick,"  said  the 
priest,  "The  old  pagan  couldn't  understand  why  he 
shouldn't  smash  his  enemies  in  this  world  and  send  them 
to  hell  hereafter.     But  you  know  — " 

"I  know  that  I  agree  with  that  old  pagan  gentleman 
thoroughly,"  said  Hamberton.  "In  public  or  in  private, 
in  races  and  in  individuals,  the  law  of  self-preservation 


A  NEW  SAINT 


149 


holds;  and  that  cannot  be  if  a  man  is  not  at  liberty  to  de- 
fend himself  and  punish  his  aggressor.  But,  Claire,  you 
forgot  something.  Gordon  ended  that  letter  with  a 
comical  proposal.     Just  get  that  letter  again,  and  read  it." 

Again  Claire  Moulton  took  up  her  scrap-book,  and 
read: 

"'I  am  not  well  off;  but  I  would  offer or  his  agent 

;iCi,ooo,  if  either  of  them  would  live  one  week  in  one  of 
these  poor  devils'  places,  and  feed  as  these  people  do.'" 

"A  safe  offer,"  said  the  priest.  "That  is  an  impossible 
condition,  an  impossible  condition,"  and  he  waived  it 
away. 

"I  think  I  would  marry  that  man,"  said  Claire,  laugh- 
ing.    "That  is,  if  the  fellow  came  out  of  the  ordeal  alive." 

"Who  is  he,  by  the  way?"  asked  Hamberton. 

"The  landlord  of  a  large  district  many  miles  from 
here,"  said  the  priest.  "He  has  a  bad  name;  but  we 
don't  know;  we  don't  know;  we  don't  know!" 

And  the  old  priest  dropped  into  silence,  as  Claire 
Moulton  left  the  room. 

Hamberton  had  noticed  that  he  had  shivered  when 
Claire  uttered  the  word  "marry,"  and  had  looked  towards 
the  girl,  as  if  beseechingly.  He  understood  well  the 
emotion  and  the  look;  and  he  closed  the  door  carefully, 
and  came  over,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  old  priest's  arm. 

"Fear  not!"  he  said.  "All  will  come  right.  Claire 
will  never  marry,  and  I  — " 

"How  do  you  know?  How  can  you  know?"  said  the 
old  priest,  passionately. 

"There,  now,  don't  be  disturbed,"  said  Hamberton, 
soothingly.     "You'll  find  all  will  be  right  in  the  end." 


I50  LISHEEN 

"It  cannot  be  right.  It  must  be  wrong,  all  wrong," 
said  the  priest,  still  in  the  passionate  tone  that  contrasted 
so  painfully  with  his  usual  meekness.  "Oh,  how  can  you 
think  of  it  —  you  who  are  so  good,  so  good  —  whose  life 
is  so  perfect  before  God?" 

"There  is  no  God!"  said  Hamberton,  solemnly.  "And 
I  am  not  good." 

"But  you  are,  you  are,"  reiterated  the  priest.  "You 
cannot  deceive  me.  Cannot  we  see  your  goodness  around 
us  everywhere?" 

"What  you,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Hamberton,  "in 
your  simplicity  and  guilelessness,  call  goodness,  is  only 
selfishness  in  another  form." 

"No,  no,  no,"  said  the  priest.  "I  cannot,  I  will  not, 
believe  it.  Look  at  all  these  poor  people  whom  you  have 
made  happy.  Look  at  their  cottages,  their  gardens,  their 
flowers,  their  steady  weekly  wages,  where  there  was  but 
poverty  and  dirt  and  ignorance.  And  all  this  the  work 
of  your  hands.  And  you,  you,''^  he  cried  emphatically, 
"to  even  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"Listen!"  said  Hamberton,  sitting  down  and  speaking 
slowly.  "I  appreciate  your  kindness  and  your  good 
opinion ;  but  you  do  me  wrong.  You  impute  to  me  virtues 
which  I  do  not  possess,  which  I  never  possessed.  I  have 
money,  more  than  I  know  what  to  do  with.  I  could  have 
gratified  myself  one  way  by  purchasing  a  yacht  and  fooling 
around  the  world;  but  I  had  no  taste  for  seasickness  and 
tarred  ropes  and  danger.  I  could  have  travelled;  but  I 
had  no  fancy  for  being  packed  into  the  narrow  compart- 
ments of  Continental  trains,  squeezed  between  sweating 
women,  who  would  not  allow  the  eighth  of  an  inch  of  a 


A  NEW  SAINT  151 

window  to  be  raised  in  the  dog  days.  I  could  have  spent 
my  money  on  rioting  and  dissipation;  but  I  had  no  fancy 
to  be  racked  by  the  gout ;  and,  thanks  to  my  dead  mother, 
I  abominate  uncleanness,  physical  or  moral,  in  every 
form.  What  then?  I  come  here.  I  create  a  certain 
beauty  out  of  a  certain  ugliness.  It  pleases  my  taste, 
which  is  fastidious,  I  admit,  by  placing  certain  pretty 
pictures  before  my  eyes,  where  there  were  but  certain 
deformities.  I  enjoy  all  the  pleasures  of  a  poet  —  a 
maker  of  things.  I  can  now  look  from  my  window, 
and  enjoy  the  beauty  of  that  harbour  and  those  sands 
and  cliffs,  and  that  sea,  without  having  the  prospect 
marred  by  rotting  roofs,  and  gaping  mud-walls,  and 
ragged  babies.  I  have  made  these  men  decent  w^orkers 
out  of  drunken  loafers.  I  like  to  hear  the  click  of  the 
chisel,  and  the  hiss  of  steam,  and  the  creaking  of  the  der- 
rick. But  I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  to  call  all  this  virtue. 
I  know  it  is  nothing  but  the  selfishness  of  the  ordinary 
parasites  of  society  under  another  form.  All  this  altruism 
is  but  self  disguised ;  and  sometimes,  I  think,  self  disguised 
in  an  ignoble  form," 

He  stopped,  and  remained  for  some  time  buried  in  deep 
thought.  Father  Cosgrove  was  silent.  These  were  psy- 
chological positions  never  before  presented  to  his  mind. 
Hamberton  continued: 

"Believe  me,  my  dear  friend,  self  is  the  only  God  — 
egoism  the  only  religion.  All  the  great  deeds  of  the 
world,  that  sound  heroic,  are  done  simply  through  selfish 
impulses.  Scaevola  putting  his  arm  into  the  flames  — 
what  was  this  but  pride,  or  vanity  —  the  desire  of  that 
most  contemptible  thing  called  fame?     Sidney  giving  the 


152  LISHEEN 

drink  of  water  to  the  dying  soldier  —  what  was  this  ? 
The  same  impulse  of  'self  that  made  me  build  yonder 
cottages.  And  all  your  patriots,  statesmen,  churchmen, 
masquerading  in  their  rags  and  tinsel  before  the  world  — 
each  rogue  or  fool,  admitting  to  his  valet  or  his  looking- 
glass  that  he  is  but  an  actor  —  why,  he  is  not  even  that. 
He  is  but  a  poor  puppet  in  the  hands  of  that  mysterious 
thing,  called  Nature,  which  keeps  up  its  little  show, 
lighted  by  its  little  lantern,  through  the  selfish  impulses 
of  these  marionettes." 

"I  cannot  follow  you,  I  cannot  follow  you,"  said  the 
priest.  "These  things  are  beyond  my  comprehension. 
But  it  seems  to  me  you  wrong  yourself.  You  are  not  the 
man  you  have  painted.  I  saw  you  the  other  day  take  up 
in  your  arms  and  kiss  the  child  of  that  unhappy  woman 
—  Nellie  Gillespie.    A  bad  man  wouldn't  do  that!" 

"I  didn't  say  I  was  bad,"  replied  Hamberton.  "In 
fact,  there  is  no  good  or  bad  — " 

"And  you  must  admit  your  affection  for  Miss  Moulton. 
At  least,  there  is  no  self  there." 

"Right.  None,  absolutely  none.  And  hence,  when  I 
see  Claire  happy  beyond  question,  I  shall  obliterate  self 
and  blot  it  out  forever!" 

"Then,"  said  Father  Cosgrove,  rising,  "I  shall  do  all 
in  my  power  to  thwart  every  attempt  at  having  Miss  Claire 
settled.  The  cost  would  be  too  great,  the  cost  would  be 
too  great." 

"You  cannot,"  said  Hamberton.  "This  is  beyond 
your  power  or  mine.  Behind  blind  Nature  is  the  blinder 
force  called  Fate.  If  it  is  Claire's  destiny  to  marry,  the 
mighty  wheel  of  Fate  will  turn  round  slowly  and  blindly, 


A  NEW  SAINT  153 

and  place  at  her  feet  the  man  she  is  to  wed.  She  cannot 
escape  him,  nor  can  he  escape  her.  And  it  isn't  you,  my 
dear  friend,  that  can  grasp  the  spokes  of  that  wheel  and 
stop  it,  or  turn  it  back." 

"But  if  I  tell  Claire  — Miss  Moulton  —  what  will 
happen  after  her  marriage,  she  never  will,  she  never  can, 
marry,"  said  the  priest. 

"But  you  won't,  you  cannot,  tell  Claire  anything  that  I 
have  told  you.  You  know,"  he  continued,  laughing, 
"that  we  are  taught  to  believe  that  all  priests  are  casuists, 
and  can  find  an  excellent  reason  for  every  violation  of 
pledge  or  honour,  or  every  contravention  of  truth.  But  I 
know  you  —  know  you  weU.  I  won't  say  but  that  you 
are  at  liberty  to  thwart  Claire's  marriage,  although  you 
have  perceived,  I  think,  that  hers  is  not  a  character  to  be 
thwarted  without  peril.  But  you  know  that  you  are  not 
at  liberty  to  thwart  me  by  any  unseasonable  revelation 
of  my  principles  or  purposes." 

"Then,  may  God  help  me!"  said  the  old  priest,  rising 
up.  "  I  am  going  to  say  a  dreadful  thing  —  I'm  sorry 
I  ever  knew  you  or  Miss  Moulton.  My  parish  priest, 
who  is  only  half  my  age,  often  told  me  to  beware  of  inter- 
meddling in  other  people's  affairs.  He  meant,  of  course, 
that  I  am  an  old  fool.     And  so  I  am;  and  so  I  am!" 

"Well,  we  mustn't  be  premature,"  said  Hamberton, 
smiling.  "Let  us  await  the  development  of  things.  And  I 
shall  be  more  complimentary  than  you,  and  say  that  it  has 
been  a  pleasure  and  a  profit  for  me  to  have  known  you." 

"Ah,  you're  too  good,  too  good,"  said  the  priest,  shak- 
ing his  hand  in  farewell.  "  God  will  save  you  both !  God 
will  save  you  both!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

NOT   FORGOTTEN 

Like  so  many  others  in  the  hour  of  their  dereliction, 
Bob  Maxwell  did  not  think  that  he  was  still  an  object  of 
interest  —  of  hope,  or  commiseration,  or  contempt  —  to 
many.  We  are  prone  to  think,  in  the  hour  of  agony,  that 
we  stand  solitary  in  our  trial.  It  is  not  so.  Even  as  a 
matter  of  self-interest,  we  centre  the  thoughts  of  many, 
whose  images  may  have  faded  from  our  own  minds. 

There  were  two  places,  at  least,  where  Maxwell  was 
not  only  not  forgotten,  but  where  his  memory  was  kept 
in  frequent  and  fragrant  remembrance.  The  one  was  the 
cabin  of  the  Widow  Leary,  up  amongst  the  bracken, 
where  the  burn  sparkled  across  the  road,  and  the  birds 
never  ceased  from  singing  even  in  the  winter  time.  The 
other  was  the  couch  of  almost  perpetual  agony,  on  which 
Major  Willoughby  lay. 

In  the  little  homely  conferences,  about  "ways  and 
means,"  between  Darby  Leary  and  his  mother,  the 
"masther"  was  often  mentioned.  For  Darby  had  very 
pleasant  recollections  of  that  little  camp  down  there  in 
the  glen;  and  before  the  bright,  fragrant  fire  of  pine  logs 
and  turf  during  that  winter,  whilst  the  wind  soughed  dis- 
mally outside,  and  whilst  his  bare  legs  were  almost  scorched 
and  blistered  with  the  heat,  his  fancy  summoned  up  the 
long,  sweet,  summer  days  in  the  glen,  when  he  lay  flat 

154 


NOT  FORGOTTEN  155 

in  the  sun,  on  a  bed  of  fern,  or  leaned  up  against  a  sunny 
ditch,  and  ate,  with  a  relish  unknown  to  the  most  fas- 
tidious epicure,  the  mashed  potatoes  and  the  ricli  creamy 
fat,  that  his  master  had  to  cut  away  carefully,  by  doctor's 
orders,  from  the  sirloin  or  the  steak. 

It  almost  made  Darby  cry,  there  in  his  cabin  and  con- 
demned to  potatoes  and  milk,  to  think  of  that  beef-fat  — 
to  think  of  his  esctasy  when  he  held  it  in  his  fingers,  and 
watched  its  creamy  transparency;  to  think  of  the  bite  of 
the  hot  potato,  which  was  dry  in  his  mouth,  until,  oh,  ye 
heavens!  he  liquified  it  with  that  delectable  jelly,  and  rolled 
the  morsel  in  his  mouth,  whilst  the  crisp  skin  crackled 
under  his  teeth.  No  coloured  son  of  Africa  with  his 
juicy  watermelon,  no  Esquimo  with  his  whalc-blubbcr, 
ever  enjoyed  such  ecstasies  as  Darby;  and  when  he  had 
wiped  his  fingers  on  his  corduroy  breeches,  he  wondered 
as  only  a  pleasant  digestion  can  make  one  wonder, 
what  strange  folks  these  rich  people  must  be,  to  reject 
the  most  glorious  delicacies  of  life,  and  limit  themselves 
to  lean  beef  and  soda-water. 

His  mother  had  her  own  interpretation  of  these  anoma- 
lies. 

"It  keeps  them  from  gettin'  shtout  an'  fat,"  she  said, 
"in  ordher  to  plaze  the  ladies." 

And  Darby  said :  "  Begor,  muddcr,  you're  right.  That's 
it!" 

He  told  his  mother,  too,  that  the  "masther"  wanted  him 
to  drink  ink  from  a  black  bottle;  but  that  he  only  tasted 
it,  and  spat  it  out.  But  he  said  nothing,  wise  fool  that  he 
was,  about  the  "wee  drap"  of  spirits  which  sometimes, 
but  not  often,  Aleck  had  given  him  on  the  sly,  and  Avhich 


156  LISHEEN 

gripped  his  throat  and  made  him  cough,  and  then  say 
ecstatically:  "Ah!"  as  he  rolled  his  eyes  towards  heaven. 

Very  minute  and  graphic,  too,  were  the  stories  Darby 
told  his  mother  of  the  "doin's"  and  " carryin's-on "  of 
the  great  people ;  and  very  great  was  her  wonder  when  she 
heard  what  a  complicated  thing  civilization  was.  How 
people  could  eat  eight  or  ten  courses  of  soups,  fish,  entrees, 
joints,  fruits,  sweets,  cheese,  etc.,  etc.,  without  becoming 
what  she  called  "porpushes,"  surpassed  her  understand- 
ing. 

"Where  the  dickens  do  they  shtow  it  all  away?"  she 
often  asked.  "And  why  are  they  so  shlim  and  yallow, 
when  they  have  the  besht  of  'atin'  and  drinkin'  every 
day?" 

When  Darby  told  her  that  the  "masther"  had  two  kinds 
of  "mate"  for  his  dinner,  it  produced  great  surprise  in 
the  old  woman's  mind,  who  never  saw  meat  but  at  Christ- 
mas and  Easter.  But  when  she  heard  of  the  a  la  Russe 
dinner,  she  decided  the  world  had  gone  mad. 

Then,  one  day,  in  a  moment  of  inadvertence  and  com- 
municativeness. Darby,  with  a  blush  mantling  his  already 
red  neck  and  face,  told  his  mother  how  fine  ladies  dressed 
for  dinner,  and  described  their  toilettes  rather  minutely 
as  he  had  seen  them,  after  much  hesitation  and  many 
scruples,  one  summer  night.  The  poor  old  woman,  who, 
in  Oriental  fashion,  wore  several  coverings  across  her 
breast,  and  several  wrappings  around  her  head,  was  slow 
to  grasp  his  meaning.  When  she  did,  she  gave  way  to  a 
regular  paroxysm  of  passion. 

"Be  off,  you  blagard  you,"  she  cried,  snatching  up  the' 
bellows,  and  smiting  this  unfortunate  reporter  across  the 


NOT  FORGOTTEN  157 

back.  "What  do  you  mane  by  bringin'  sich  things  into 
a  dacent  house?  What  the  divil  timpted  you  to  invint 
such  shtories  ?  I  suppose  thim  grooms  and  gamekeepers. 
Go  out  and  wash  your  dirty  mouth  in  the  river ;  or,  be  this 
and  be  that,  you'll  niver  set  down  to  a  male  in  this  house 
agin." 

"Shure,  I  didn't  mane  no  harrum,  mudder,"  said  the 
poor  fellow,  whimpering.  "Shure,  I  only  tould  you  what 
I  saw  with  me  own  two  eyes  — " 

"You  niver  saw  nothin'  of  the  kind,  you  ruffian,"  said 
his  mother.  "Don't  be  tellin'  me  sich  shtories  as  that, 
you  were  listenin'  to  them  blagards  at  the  hotel  talkin'  of 
things  that  no  dacent  Christian  ud  mintion;  and  you  want 
to  pershuade  yer  ould  mother  you  saw  thim  yourself." 

"Pon  me  sowkins,  I  saw  thim,"  said  Darby.  "And, 
more'n  that,  I  saw  the  gould  bracelets  on  their  bare 
arrums  — " 

"  That'll  do  now !  That'll  do  now !  I  want  no  more  of 
yere  blagardin'.  Take  that  where  'tis  welcome.  Be  the 
way,  whin  were  you  at  yere  juty?" 

"The  fust  of  de  mont,"  said  Darby.  "I  never  missed 
it  yet." 

"Did  ye  do  your  pinnance?"  asked  his  mother. 

"I  did,  begor,  twice  over,  for  fear  I'd  make  a  mistake," 
said  Darby,  confidently. 

"Thin,  you'll  go  to  the  priesht  agin  next  Saturday,  and 
tell  him  of  your  bad  talk;  an'  av  I  don't  see  you  at  the 
althar  Sunday  morning,  cut  the  head  aff  av  me  if  you  inter 
this  cabin  agin!" 

It  will  be  seen  from  this  that  Mrs.  Leary's  temper  was 
variable;  and  really  Darby,  after  all  his  experience,  didn't 


158  LISHEEN 

know,  as  he  said,  "Whin  he  had  her."  Sometimes  when 
Darby  was  facetious,  and  put  on  the  airs  of  a  fme  gentle- 
man, Mrs.  Leary  was  amused,  and  even  proud  of  her 
poor  boy.  When,  for  example.  Darby  rushed  in  with  a 
ploughman's  appetite  and  in  glorious  spirits,  and  de- 
manded, in  an  affected  accent: 

"What  for  dinner  to-dee,  mudder?"  the  old  woman 
would  answer  good-humouredly : 

"Oh!  everything,  everything,  yer  'anner;  and  plinty 
of  it!" 

"Shawl  we  have  roshe-beef  to-dee,  mudder?" 

"To  be  sure,  to  be  sure;  an'  lashin's  and  lavin's  of  it, 
yer  'anner!" 

"An'  plum-puddin',  av  coorse?" 

"Oh,  yeh;  av  course,  yer  'anner.  Is  there  annythin' 
else  yer  'anner  'ud  hke?" 

"Lemme  see!  No;  I  think  that'll  do!"  And  Darby 
would  sit  down  with  a  relish  to  the  potatoes  and  salt, 
sometimes  improved  with  a  little  dip;  and  the  old  mother 
would  think: 

"Wisha,  who  knows?  Quarer  things  happen.  Look 
at  Mrs.  Mulcahy's  boy,  that  I  knew  a  bare-legged  gossoon, 
like  Darby,  a  few  years  ago;  and  look  at  him  now  home 
from  America.  Why  the  masther  is  not  aiqual  to  him. 
And  perhaps,  who  knows,  wan  of  thim  foine  ladies  may 
take  a  fancy  to  me  poor  bhoy  —  sure,  he's  straight  as  a 
pike-staff,  and  as  light  on  his  feet  as  a  bird.  And,  shure, 
didn't  ould  Captain  Curtis'  daughter  elope  wid  the 
coachman?  Not  that  I'd  be  wishin'  that,  God  forbid! 
Shure,  his  soul  is  fust  and  foremost !  But,  if  it  was  right, 
an'  they  had  the  priesht's  blessin'  — " 


NOT  FORGOTTEN  159 

So  the  maternal  fancy  wandered,  throwing  up  its  little 
castles  here  and  there,  whilst  Darby,  with  much  emphasis, 
gobbled  up  the  floury  potatoes  and  swilled  the  skim-milk 
from  his  wooden  porringer. 

But,  once  or  twice,  Mrs.  Leary  caught  Darby  suddenly 
"doin'  the  gran'  gintleman,"  and  she  resented  it.  For 
when  she  caught  Darby  in  the  kitchen,  the  sugan  chair 
tilted  back,  till  it  nearly  upset  the  centre  of  gravity,  whilst 
Darby  with  crossed  legs,  and  an  attitude  of  ease  and 
voluptuousness,  smoked  a  cigarette  of  brown  paper  or 
straw,  she  gave  him  the  bellows  across  his  back,  and  sent 
him  howling  into  the  haggard. 

But,  whilst  thus  maintaining  proper  discipline  in  her 
household,  and  keeping  Darby  within  proper  bounds, 
she  never  tired  of  hearing  him  talk  of  the  "masther." 
What  the  "masther"  did;  what  the  "masther"  said; 
how  the  "masther"  dressed;  what  the  "masther"  ate; 
the  "masther's"  fine  round  curses^  when  he  was  in  a 
passion;  the  "masther's"  acts  of  generosity,  when  he  was 
in  a  better  mood;  these  were  endless  topics  around  that 
humble  fireside  there  amongst  the  Kerry  hills.  And 
these  gloomy  December  days,  when  the  leaden  skies 
stooped  down  and  wrapped  mother  earth  in  their  hea\7 
folds,  and  while  Maxwell  lay,  in  agony  and  desolation  of 
spirit,  there  in  Owen  McAuliffe's  cabin,  many  were  the 
conjectures  made  by  the  widow  and  son  about  his  sur- 
roundings and  occupation,  and  many  were  the  hopes  and 
wishes  that  the  winter  would  swiftly  pass,  and  the  little 
bell-tent  shine  out  once  more  down  there  amongst  the 
furze  and  bracken  in  the  glen. 

"'Twon't  be  long  comin'  now,  agra,"  the  widow  would 


i6o  LISHEEN 

say.  "Sure  the  days  will  be  lingthenin'  soon;  and  thin 
we'll  be  into  Aisther;  and,  sure,  'tis  only  a  lep  from  that 
to  summer.  We  won't  know  where  we  are,  whin  the 
Scotchman  will  be  up  here  lookin'  fer  you  agin." 

"That's  thrue  fer  you,  mudder,"  Darby  would  reply. 
"An'  shure  if  the  'masther'  doesn't  come  this  time, 
there'll  be  always  gintlemen  at  the  Hotel.  I  hope  that 
foxy  scoundrel  won't  come,  though;  or  I'll  give  him  a 
worse  duckin'  thin  he  giv  me,  bad  luck  to  him!" 

"Sh!  Shtop  that  cursin',  Darby.  'Tis  no  good  here 
nor  there.  An'  shure,  'tis  always  betther  say  the  good 
thing.     An'  the  walls  have  ears." 

"The  masther  wouldn't  do  it,"  Darby  would  reply. 
"He  was  a  rale  gintleman.  No  wan  knows  where  the 
foxy  fellow  kem  from.  An',  shure,  I  hard  the  byes  saying 
that  he  tuk  the  masther 's  young  lady  away  from  him." 

"Begor,  thin,  she  must  have  the  quare  taste  intirely  to 
turn  her  back  on  the  masther  an'  go  after  an  object  like 
him.     But  I  wondher  what's  the  masther  doin'  now?" 

"Oh,  sphortin'  an'  injyin'  himself,  I  suppose,"  con- 
jectured Darby.  "Yerra,  what  else  has  they  to  do  but 
divartin'  themselves?  They  gets  up  whin  we're  goin'  to 
bed ;  and  goes  to  bed  whin  we  are  gettin'  up.  They  does 
everythin'  by  contrayries.  Begor,  I  wouldn't  be  shur- 
prised  now  if  the  masther  was  away  in  the  West  Injies,  or 
some  out-of-the-way  place  injyin'  himself;  or,  maybe, 
he's  rowlin'  about  Dublin  in  his  carriage  with  the  Lord 
Lieutenant  himself." 

"You  wouldn't  be  afther  sayin'  that?"  said  the  mother. 
"He  must  be  a  gintleman  out  an'  out  to  do  that.  But, 
shure,  wherever  he  is,  may  God  save  him.     Only  for  him, 


NOT  FORGOTTEN  i6i 

we  wouldn't  have  the  thatch  above  us  to-day,  I  wondher 
will  he  keep  it  out  of  yer  wages,  Darby?" 

"  The  masther  ?  Not  him.  He  thinks  no  more  of  that 
five  pounds  than  you  would  about  a  thraneen  of  male." 

"  'Tis  a  fine  thing  to  be  rich  and  happy  and  continted," 
the  mother  would  reply.  "I  suppose  we'll  have  somethin' 
ourselves  in  the  nixt  wurruld,  as  we  haven't  much  in  this!" 

In  quite  a  different  manner,  and  not  with  less  sympathy, 
did  the  Major  brood  over  Bob  Maxwell  these  dark  Decem- 
ber days.  His  thoughts  wandered  after  the  young  man, 
although  he  had  cursed  and  blowed  his  folly  a  hundred 
times,  and  had  mentally  excommunicated  him  for  his 
Quixotic  ideas  and  his  treacherous  abandonment  of  his 
own  class,  and  the  great  central  dogma  of  ascendancy. 

'"Tis  all  d d  rot,"  he  would  often  say  to  himself, 

"this  talk  about  justice  and  equality  —  all  d d  Social- 
ism. The  next  thing  will  be  the  barricades  and  the 
guillotine,  with  all  the  insufferable  poltroonery  of  this 
Government.  But  this  comes  from  ourselves  —  ourselves ! 
Good  God!  to  think  I  should  live  to  see  a  gentleman  so 
forget  himself!  I  hope  the  fellow,  if  ever  he  comes  back 
alive  from  the  hands  of  these  moonlighters,  will  be  ostra- 
cized, expelled,  and  blackballed  in  every  club  in  Dublin. 
What  will  these  ruffians  think,  by  that  we're  afraid? 
And  then  —  'tis  all  up.  By  heavens!  They'd  think 
nothing  of  lighting  the  Smithfield  fires  again  and  roasting 
every  man  of  us." 

But  the  Major  had  gentler  moods.  Thoughts  of  Bob 
—  Bob,  the  son  of  his  old  friend;  Bob,  the  splendid  sports- 
man; Bob,  the  soul  of  honour,  who  would  no  more  touch 
another  man's  money  than  he'd  take  his  life;  Bob,  who 


1 62  LISHEEN 

challenged  that  coward,  EUis,  and  wanted  to  bring  back 
that  gentlemanly  amusement  of  duelling  amongst  a  retro- 
grade and  cowardly  generation;  and  Bob,  who  he  thought 
would  take  Mabel  to  the  altar,  and  be  to  himself  a  son 
and  a  support  in  these  sad  days  that  were  stretching 
down  the  declivities  of  life  —  would  come  back ;  and 
sometimes  Freeman,  his  valet,  would  detect  him  talking 
sadly  to  himself;  or,  be  not  incredulous,  O  reader!  for 
human  nature  is  always  and  everywhere  the  same,  wiping 
his  eyes  secretly  behind  the  friendly  shelter  of  the  Times. 
And  the  Major,  too,  had  misgivings  about  Mabel's  future 
—  misgivings  which  made  more  poignant  his  anger  and 
sorrow  for  Bob  Maxwell.  It  was  not  only  the  little 
episode  we  have  mentioned  in  a  former  chapter,  but 
sundry  other  little  things  —  little  revelations  of  character 
in  a  look,  in  a  word,  in  a  gesture  —  that  made  the  Major 
uneasy.  Above  all,  there  was  that  secret  repulsion,  that 
original,  intuitive  dislike  for  Outram,  which  he  could  not 
explain,  which  he  strove  to  conquer,  which  remained 
in  spite  of  every  effort  to  dislodge  it.  And  sometimes, 
although  he  hated  and  despised  himself  for  doing  so,  he 
would  speak  on  the  subject  to  Freeman. 

"No  further  telegram  about  Master  Bob,  Freeman?" 

"No,  sir,  I  was  hup  at  the  hofhce  yesterday;  and  they 
'ave  not  an  ideer  where  the  master  is.  They  thought  once 
they  'ad  'im;  but  they  were  mistook!" 

"Oh,  no  matter;  no  matter,"  the  Major  would  say. 
"Only  I  should  be  glad  if  he  were  home  for  Miss  Mabel's 
wedding.    If  would  be  nice!" 

"Very  nice,  hindeed,  sir!  I'm  quite  sure  both  Miss 
Mabel  and  Mr.  Houtram  will  miss  'im  very  much!" 


NOT  FORGOTTEN  163 

And  Freeman  moved  the  Major's  couch  as  imper- 
turbably  as  if  he  were  the  impersonation  of  truth. 

"Look  here,  Freeman,"  the  Major  would  cry,  "that's 
all  rot.  That  doesn't  go  down  with  me.  Do  you  believe 
that  either  Miss  Mabel  or  Outram  would  care  one  jot 
whether  Bob  Maxwell  was  at  the  marriage,  or  half-mur- 
dered down  in  a  Kerry  bog?" 

"Well,  sir,  it's  not  for  the  likes  of  me  to  hoffer  hopinions 
about  those  above  us.  But  I  thought  you  would  ha' 
liked  to  be  told  that  Mr.  Maxwell  was  still  hinterested  in 
Miss  Mabel." 

"And  do  you  think  he  is?  Come  now,  do  you  honestly 
believe  he  is?" 

"No,  sir,  I  can't  say  as  I  do.  When  a  genelman  goes 
away,  and  leaves  the  young  lady  halone,  and  doesn't  pay 
'er  those  hattentions  that  young  ladies  hexpec's,  well, 
then,  he  can't  hexpect  nothin'  in  return." 

"I'm  sorry  for  Bob  Maxwell,"  said  the  Major,  medita- 
tively. 

"So  am  I,  sir!"  said  Freeman.     "And  so  are  we  hall!" 

"Why  should  you  be  sorry?"  asked  the  Major. 

"Because  you  see,  sir,  he's  losing  such  a  splendid  gir 
—  ahem  —  young  lady;  but  we're  sorry  for  Miss  Mabel, 
too!" 

"For  Miss  Mabel?  Why  should  you  be  sorry  for  Miss 
Mabel?"  queried  the  Major. 

"Because  we  hall  liked  Mr.  Maxwell,  or  Master  Bob, 
sir!    And  because  Mr.  Houtram — " 

Freeman  suddenly  stopped. 

"Well,  what  about  Mr.  Outram?"  sharply  queried 
the  Major. 


1 64  LISHEEN 

"I  beg  your  pardin,  sir.  I  should  not  ha'  mentioned 
Mr.  Hou tram's  name." 

"That's  all  right.  But  now  you  have  mentioned  it, 
what  is  it  you  were  about  to  say?" 

"  Oh,  nothink,  sir,  nothink  at  all.  'Tis  not  for  the  likes 
of  me— " 

"Stop  that  d d  rot,  Freeman!    You  know  me  now 

too  well  to  believe  that  kind  of  stuff.  What  were  you 
about  to  say  concerning  Mr.  Outram?" 

"Oh,  nothink,  sir,  nothink,  hi  hassure  you.  But  we 
do  be  saying  among  ourselves,  how  it  were  well  for  young 
ladies  to  know  hall  about  their  hintendcds  before  taking 
the  big  plunge.  The  cook  is  agoin'  to  be  married  soon  to 
a  feller  from  Hindia  — " 

"  Yes,  I  know,  I  know,"  interrupted  the  Major.  "  What 
has  that  to  do  with  Mr.  Outram?" 

"Oh,  nothink,  sir,  nothink;  honly  hi  says  to  cook,  says 
hi:  'You  should  know  somethink  habout  the  feller's  han- 
tecedents.'  'Oh,'  sez  she,  'the  priest  must  see  habout 
all  that.'  These  poor  Papists  believe  that  their  priests 
knows  as  much  as  Halmighty  Gawd.  'That's  hall  right,' 
sez  hi,  'but  when  the  knot  is  tied,  can  the  priest  unloose 
hit?'  'No,'  sez  she,  'not  on  this  side  of  the  grave.' 
'Well,  then,'  I  sez,  puttin'  it  plain  like,  'if  that  feller  has 
a  girl  or  two  abroad  in  Hindia  or  Haden,  what  can  the 
priest  do  when  you  diskiver  it?'  'Nothin','  sez  she. 
'Well,  then',  sez  hi—" 

"Look  here.  Freeman,  I  want  no  more  of  that  d d 

nonsense,"  interrupted  the  Major.  "What  has  all  this 
got  to  do  with  Mr.  Outram?" 

"Oh,    nothink,    sir,    nothink,"    said    Freeman.     "We 


NOT  FORGOTTEN  165 

don't  know  nothink  about  Mr.  Houtram;  leastways,  we 
don't  think  as  how  Mr.  Houtram  —  Mr.  Houtram  is  a  very 
nice  gentelman,  sir!" 

"He  is  —  very,"  said  the  Major.  "When  I  ask  your 
opinion  about  Mr.  Outram,  Freeman,  you  can  give  it." 

"I'm  sure,  sir,  I  meant  no  offence.  Leastways,  I 
thought  that,  maybe,  you  would  like  to  know  what  people 
think  — " 

"No;  I  can  think  for  myself,"  replied  the  Major.  "I 
don't  want  to  hear  kitchen  gossip.     There's  always  too 

much  d d  nonsense  and  gossip  going  on  downstairs. 

If  we  had  less  talk,  we'd  have  better  dinners." 

"I'll  tell  cook  so,  sir,"  said  Freeman,  imperturbably. 
"You're  quite  right,  sir.  It's  not  the  business  of  servants 
to  discuss  their  superiors'  affairs.  Shall  I  move  that 
couch,  sir?    A  little  towards  the  fire?" 

And  the  Major  was  not  quite  sure  whether  he  ought  to 
fling  a  spittoon  at  the  fellow's  head,  or  offer  him  an  increase 
of  wages. 

But  he  was  much  disquieted  at  what  he  had  heard. 
Clearly,  this  forthcoming  marriage  was  much  discussed 
downstairs.  Clearly,  too,  it  was  not  highly  approved  of. 
There  were  little  innuendoes  about  life  abroad,  which,  to 
the  Major,  who  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  Simla,  meant  a 
good  deal.  What  if  Outram  had  had  a  "past"?  What 
if  his  reputation  could  not  bear  investigation  ?    What  if  — 

Yes;  the  Major  was  disquieted.  But  what  could  he 
do  ?  Whom  could  he  consult  ?  There  is  the  evil  of  being 
without  friends  in  this  world.  For  if  friends  are  some- 
times troublesome,  and  would  like  to  share  with  you  the 
material  things  of  life,  they  are  also  useful,  and  may 


1 66  LISHEEN 

sometimes  give  disinterested  advice.  You  may  have  to 
pay  for  it  in  one  shape  or  another;  but,  then,  you  must 
pay  for  everything  M^orth  having.  The  world  is  but  a 
Chamber  of  Commerce,  whether  you  play  with  counters 
or  coins. 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  SICK  CALL 

The  man  of  the  world,  who  is  not  a  cynic  at  forty, 
must  be  a  saint  or  a  scoundrel.  If  he  is  the  former,  he 
condones  all  things  on  the  principle  of  infinite  pity.  If 
the  latter,  he  forgives  everything  on  the  grounds  of  uni- 
versal depravity.  But  if  he  have  no  ear  for  the  "still,  sad 
music  of  humanity,"  and  if  he  has  not  come  to  think, 

"what  d d  beasts  your  godlike  men  can  be,"  there 

must  remain  only  a  kind  of  mild  cynicism,  that  contemns 
while  it  pardons. 

Such  was  the  frame  of  mind  in  which  Hugh  Hamberton 
came  to  Ireland.  He  had  modified  his  ideas  after  three 
years'  residence  in  what  is  called  "the  distressful  country," 
so  far  that  he  still  recognised  the  metaphysical  possibility 
of  distinterestedness  and  unselfishness,  and,  with  this,  the 
possibility,  hitherto  unimaginable,  that  he  might  yet  have 
to  change  his  entire  estimate  of  human  nature.  He  found 
it  hard  to  understand  how  the  laz}',  thriftless,  drunken 
Irish,  as  he  had  heard  them  described,  could  be  the  same 
as  the  quick,  eager  workers  whom  he  employed;  just  as 
he  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  the  gloomy,  rainy,  wet- 
sodden,  rain-soaked  island  could  be  the  island  of  such 
idyllic  graces  and  charms  that  many  a  time  he  thought 
he  would  not  change  his  home  to  Capua  or  Sorrento,  even 
if  he  had  a  mind.     But  it  was  in  the  matter  of  political, 

167 


1 68  LISHEEN 

or  rather  social,  economy  that  his  ideas  had  to  submit 
themselves  to  the  greatest  revolution.  It  had  become 
an  article  of  faith  with  him  that  the  one  instinct  of  hu- 
manity, innate,  irresistible,  was  that  of  "getting."  No 
one  was  free  from  the  low  desire.  From  the  child  in  its 
cradle,  stretching  out  its  little  hands  eagerly  for  the  glass 
bead  or  piece  of  shining  metal,  to  the  capitalist  who 
clutches  his  wealth,  till  it  drops  from  his  dead  hands, 
it  is  all  alike.  Everywhere  the  passion  for  acquisition; 
everywhere  the  greed  of  gold;  everywhere  the  reluctance 
to  part  with  anything  once  acquired,  except  under  the 
fierce  grip  of  death.  He  remembered  how  often  he  had 
practised  this  little  trick  on  his  most  intimate  friends  at 
dinner,  or  at  a  picnic.  He  would  procure  for  them  all 
the  delicacies  of  the  season;  heap  his  table  with  costly 
and  luxurious  viands;  order  his  footmen  or  waiters  to 
uncork  costly  wines;  draw  out  all  the  better  elements  of 
human  nature  under  the  influence  of  rich  living,  and  high 
thinking;  lead  the  conversation  to  high  topics  of  literature, 
or  science,  or  humanitarianism,  or  even  religion;  see  the 
faces  expanding  and  the  eyes  lighting  and  the  smile 
mantling;  and  then  —  suddenly  drop  a  hint  of  unsuccess- 
ful speculations,  or  banking  perils,  or  rapid  stock  declen- 
sions; and  it  would  be  as  if  a  ghost  stood  in  their  midst. 
Faces  would  lengthen  and  harden,  his  guests  would  shuffle 
in  their  chairs;  they  would  look  askance  at  one  another, 
and  suddenly  shut  themselves  in  silence.  And  Hamberton 
would  smile  and  think:  Yes;  it  is  always  and  everywhere 
the  same.  Touch  the  spring  and  the  harlequinade  be- 
comes a  tragedy. 
Here  in  Ireland  all  this  was  changed.    These  Irish 


A  SICK  CALL  169 

drove  hard  bargains  at  fair  and  market;  were  economical 
almost  to  miserliness  in  their  homes;  knew  the  value  of  a 
shilling  as  well  as  any  other  race;  but  he  soon  found 
that  they  lent  at  pleasure;  that  the  poor  farmers  around 
were  up  to  their  necks  in  debt  for  each  other  in  banks 
and  loan  offices.  And  here  this  old  priest!  Hamberton 
had  taken  him  to  his  heart,  because  he  was  a  priest  — 
Hamberton,  an  agnostic,  an  infidel  —  and,  in  turn,  the 
old  priest  had  warmed  towards  this  Englishman  in  a 
manner  which  was  a  daily  surprise  to  himself.  Hamber- 
ton was  so  straight,  so  matter-of-fact,  so  manly,  so  silent; 
he  did  such  noble  work  in  so  unostentatious  a  manner, 
that  often  and  often  Father  Cosgrove  caught  himself 
thinking,  what  a  saint  that  man  would  be  if  he  were  a 
Catholic;  and  what  a  paradise  would  Ireland  be,  if  we 
had  everywhere  such  noble  and  sympathetic  benefactors 
to  our  poor,  struggling  people.  Yet  the  beautiful  picture 
was  dashed,  as  by  a  blur  of  blood,  by  one  observation 
that  Hamberton  had  once  made  in  a  moment  of  con- 
fidence and  f orgetf ulness ;  and  it  was  whilst  pondering 
deeply  on  his  words,  and  uttering  a  silent  prayer  in  his 
heart,  that  he  was  suddenly  summoned  one  night  from 
his  supper,  and  told  that  Pierce  McAuliffe  wanted  to  see 
him  on  urgent  business.  He  was  in  the  little  parlour  to 
the  left  of  the  hall,  and  had  but  to  step  into  the  hall  to 
see  his  visitor. 

"Well,  Pierce,  nothing  wrong  at  Lisheen,  I  hope?" 
he  said. 

"Oh,  yeh,  no;  nothin',  yer  reverence,  than'  God!"  said 
Pierry, 

"The  old  people  all  right?" 


1 70  LISHEEN 

"Bcgor,  they  are,  ycr  reverence,"  said  Pierry,  fumbling 
with  his  cap. 

There  was  an  awkward  silence.  Pierry  turned  his  cap 
around  several  times,  turned  it  inside  out,  examined  the 
lining,  looked  around  the  hall,  and  at  last  peered  through 
the  parlour  door. 

"There's  no  one  there,"  said  Father  Cosgrove. 
''What's  the  matter?" 

"Sich  a  thing,  yer  reverence,"  said  Pierry. 

"What  is  it?"  said  the  priest. 

"The  quarest  thing  you  iver  hard  in  yer  life,"  said 
Pierry. 

"Well,  well,  let's  have  it,  whatever  it  is,"  said  the  priest. 

"Begor,  I  don't  know  where  to  begin,"  said  Pierry. 

"Well,  begin  somewhere,"  said  the  priest  a  little  im- 
patiently.    "Is  it  a  sick  call?" 

"  'Tis,  an'  it  isn't,  yer  reverence,"  said  Pierry. 

"How  can  that  be?"  asked  the  priest.  "You  mean  it 
isn't  serious?" 

"Well,  'tis  serious  enough,"  said  Pierry,  enjoying  the 
mystery.  "But  yer  reverence  needn't  bring  anythin' 
wid  you." 

"That  is  to  say,  there's  no  need  for  anointing?" 

"  Divil  a  bit  —  I  beg  yer  reverence's  pardon  —  I  mane, 
that's  just  it." 

"The  poor  patient  is  not  in  danger  of  death  then?" 

"No;  but  he's  bad  enough,"  said  Pierry. 

"Well,  then,  I  shall  come  prepared.  One  never  knows 
what  may  be  the  condition  of  the  patient." 

"Ah,  you  needn't,  yer  reverence,"  said  Pierry,  smiling. 
"You  won't  anoint  him." 


A  SICK   CALL  171 

"Oh,  but  I  will  though,"  said  the  priest.  "That  is,  if 
I  find  there's  danger." 

And  Father  Cosgrove  went  away  and  Pierry  remained 
in  the  hall  grimly  smiling.  He  would  not  practise  the 
joke  on  other  priests;  but  he  knew  the  infinite  patience 
and  forbearance  of  Father  Cosgrove. 

When  the  latter  came  downstairs,  Pierry  began  to 
think  he  had  carried  the  joke  far  enough,  so  he  said : 

"I  forgot  to  tell  yer  reverence,  he's  a  Prodestan'." 

"Oh!"  said  Father  Cosgrove,  buttoning  his  great-coat 
and  looking  dubiously  at  Pierry.  "'Tis  the  strange  boy 
at  Lisheen?" 

"'Tis,  yer  reverence." 

"What  have  I  to  say  to  him?"  said  the  priest.  "He's 
not  one  of  us." 

"No,  but  he  said  he  wanted  to  see  yer  reverence,  and 
badly."     Father  Cosgrove  reflected  for  a  moment. 

"I  hope  ye  didn't  put  any  notions  in  the  boy's  head?" 
he  said.  "  Did  he  send  for  me,  or  have  you  come  of  your- 
self?" 

"He  sint  for  you  himself,"  said  Pierry.  "He  said:  'I 
wants  to  see  that  man.'     Thims  his  very  words." 

"Then  you  were  speaking  about  me?"  said  the  priest. 

"Begor,  we  wor;  but  we  were  sayin'  nothin'  bad  about 
yer  reverence,"  said  Pierry. 

The  priest  smiled. 

"Very  good,"  he  said.  "If  the  poor  lad  wants  a  word 
of  comfort,  why  shouldn't  I  say  it?  You  go  on,  Pierce, 
and  say  I'm  coming." 

It  was  very  dark  as  he  trudged  along  the  moorland  road 
that  led  to  the  house  at  Lisheen;  and  the  soft  mud  created 


172 


LISHEEN 


by  the  late  heavy  rains  splashed  his  boots  and  gaiters. 
But  he  was  quite  heedless  of  such  things.  His  thoughts 
were  with  his  Master;  and,  if  they  wandered  from  him,  it 
was  to  stray  towards  the  flock,  of  whom  his  care,  though 
vicarious,  was  yet  parental  and  pastoral.  And  he  began 
to  wonder  how  strange  it  was  that  his  life  should  suddenly 
be  linked  with  two  souls  not  of  his  fold  —  Hamberton,  a 
stranger  and  an  agnostic,  and  this  poor  boy,  who  had 
come  hither  from  unknown  regions,  and  whose  history 
was  obscure,  except  for  the  conjectures  that  he  was  fleeing 
from  justice  and  in  hiding.  He  determined  to  be  very 
cautious,  to  measure  his  words,  and  limit  his  visit  to  a 
few  short  moments  of  sympathy  or  help  to  a  sick  stranger. 
He  should  have  known  by  experience  that  caution  was 
not  one  of  his  many  virtues;  that  he  had  all  the  impetuosity 
of  charity,  and  that  he  believed,  but  would  not  acknowl- 
edge it,  that  the  first  thoughts  are  always  thoughts  of 
virtue;  the  second  are  the  instincts  of  prudence  and  self. 

"Your  reverence  is  welcome,"  said  the  old  vanithee, 
courtesying  to  the  aged  priest,  as  he  entered  with  the 
salutation  on  his  lips: 

"God  bless  aU  here!" 

After  a  few  moments  of  kind  inquiries,  he  asked  to  be 
shown  the  patient,  and  was  ushered  into  the  bedroom 
where  Maxwell  lay.  The  latter  was  much  better,  quite 
free  from  the  dread,  feverish  feeling  he  had  at  first  ex- 
perienced, but  still  suffering  from  the  violent  pains  in 
hands  and  feet.  He  looked  at  the  old  man,  with  that 
curious,  half-wistful,  half-fearful  glance  with  which 
Protestants  often  regard  the  priest  to  whom  they  have  had 
a  first  introduction  —  a  glance  that  seems  to  say : 


A  SICK  CALL  173 

"I  know  you  are  a  mysterious  thing;  whether  good  or 
ill  I  cannot  say.  But  I  crave  your  sympathy,  if  you  are 
capable  of  such!" 

''Well,  my  poor  boy,"  said  the  kindly  old  man,  "so  you 
wished  to  see  me?     I  hope  you  are  feeling  better." 

"Much  better,  thank  you,"  said  Maxwell,  in  a  tone  of 
such  stiffness  that  the  priest  began  to  think  he  was  not 
wanted  here;  but  had  been  the  victim  of  a  pious  ruse. 
The  answer  sounded  hard  and  metallic  to  his  ears,  accus- 
tomed as  they  were  to  the  affectionate  and  caressing 
accents  of  his  own  people. 

"You  have  been  very  unwell,  I  understand,"  said  the 
priest. 

"Very!  It  is  a  relapse,  or  repetition,  of  an  old  ail- 
ment," said  Maxwell. 

"Well,  you  must  cheer  up.  Courage  is  half  the  battle," 
said  Father  Cosgrove.  "  I  hope  you  have  good  attendance 
and  every  comfort." 

"As  much  as  human  solicitude  and  ever}^  affectionate  care 
could  give,"  said  Maxwell.  "The  doctor  wanted  to  order 
me  into  the  Workhouse  Hospital ;  but  theywouldn't  allow  it." 

"God  bless  them!"  said  the  priest.  "They  will  have 
their  reward.  'I  was  a  stranger,  and  you  took  me  in.' 
But,  tell  me,  have  you  no  friends,  no  relatives,  parents,  or 
a  sister,  to  whom  we  could  wTite,  and  let  them  know  of 
your  condition?" 

"Nonel    Absolutely  none!"  said  Maxwell. 

"You  know  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  us,"  said  the  priest. 
"Your  secret  is  safe  in  the  keeping  of  these  poor  people. 
No  one  need  ever  know  you  are  here,  except  you  choose 
to  reveal  it!" 


174  LISHEEN 

The  words  startled  Maxwell.  Had  his  secret  been  dis- 
covered? Did  these  people  really  know  who  he  was? 
And,  dreadful  thought!  was  this  the  secret  of  all  their 
kindness?  The  suggestion  actually  frightened  him.  It 
would  have  been  such  a  revelation  of  human  meanness, 
where  he  had  seen  but  such  noble  excellence.  But  he 
might  be  mistaken.  He  began  to  feel  his  way  cau- 
tiously. 

"I  have  done  nothing  wrong,"  he  said.  "I  have  in- 
jured no  man.  If  it  pleased  me  to  become  a  labouring 
man,  had  I  not  the  right  to  do  so?" 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  said  the  priest.  "And,  accord- 
ing to  all  accounts,  you  have  been  doing  your  duty  faith- 
fully and  honestly.  But  you  mightn't  like  the  world  to 
know  you  are  here.  There  may  be  people  looking  for 
you  and  inquiring  all  about  you;  and  you  may  prefer  to 
remain  where  you  are." 

"I  was  not  aware  that  I  was  an  object  of  interest  to  any 
one,"  said  Maxwell,  now  quite  uneasy.  "I  suppose 
people  will  talk,  and  make  all  kinds  of  conjectures;  but  I 
don't  heed,  so  long  as  I  am  let  alone." 

"Quite  right!  quite  right!  my  boy,"  said  the  priest. 
"And  perhaps,  after  all,  the  people  are  wrong  in  their 
thoughts  about  you." 

"What  do  they  think,  Father?"  said  Maxwell. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  used  the  word  that  means  so 
much  to  the  Irish  peasant;  and  it  almost  choked  him. 
But  it  softened  yet  more  the  heart  of  the  good  priest. 

"Well,  it  is  not  right  to  tell,  perhaps,"  he  said,  "and  I 
hope  you  won't  be  offended,  because  the  people  regard 
the  matter  as  a  virtue,  more  than  a  crime.     But  they 


A  SICK  CALL  175 

have  got  it  into  their  heads  that  you  have  been  in  the 
army." 

"Yes?"  said  Maxwell,   smiling. 

"And  that  you  have  taken  French  leave,"  said  the  priest. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  guessed  so  much,"  said  Maxwell.  "Is 
that  all?" 

"That's  all,"  said  the  priest.  "And,  as  I  tell  you,  the 
people  consider  it  no  great  crime." 

"Well,  they're  quite  wrong,"  said  Maxwell,  simply. 
"I  was  never  in  her  Majesty's  service;  and  I  am  not  fleeing 
from  justice." 

"That  simplifies  matters,"  said  the  priest.  "And  now 
why  did  you  wish  to  see  me?" 

It  was  Maxwell's  turn  now  to  be  puzzled.  For  the  life 
of  him,  he  could  not  express  the  sudden  and  singular 
emotion  that  made  him  yearn  to  see  the  face  of  this  man. 
He  blurted  out: 

"Things  are  lonely  here,  you  know,  Father.  There  is 
no  minister  of  my  own  persuasion  in  the  vicinity;  and  I 
was  yearning  for  a  word  from  a  stranger,  who  might 
understand  me.     I  hope  I  have  not  annoyed  you." 

"Not  by  any  means,  my  dear  boy,"  answered  the  priest. 
"As  you  say,  we  all  covet  human  friendship,  even  of  the 
humblest  kind;  and  I  shall  be  delighted  to  come,  and 
come  again,  if  you  assure  me  I  can  be  of  any  help.  But 
you're  sure  you  have  every  attention?" 

"Quite  sure.  I'm  on  a  milk  diet;  and  that  is  easily 
procurable,  although  the  poor  people  had  to  'clear  their 
manes,'  as  they  say,  by  deporting  their  cattle  to  the  moun- 
tain. And  that  young  girl  has  a  hand  as  light  as  a  feather. 
No  skilled  nurse  ever  treated  me  so  gently." 


176  LISHEEN 

"Yes,  God  will  bless  them!"  said  the  priest,  fervently. 
"He  always  does,  even  in  this  world.  Poor  people! 
their  trials  only  increase  their  sympathies." 

"So  you  will  come?"  said  Maxwell,  anxiously.  And, 
as  the  priest  nodded,  he  continued: 

"And  some  day  I  shall  tell  you  my  secret;  and  you  will 
help  me?" 

"I  have  so  many  secrets  burthening  me,"  said  the  priest, 
"I  don't  care  for  more.     But  if  I  can  help,  I  will." 

"For  your  people's  sake,"  said  Maxwell,  extending  his 
hot  hand. 

And  the  priest  marvelled  much ;  for  were  not  these  the 
exact  words  with  which  Hugh  Hamberton  solicited  his 
visits  to  his  own  house  ? 


CHAPTER  XVI 

AN    INDIAN    LETTER 

Calcutta,  October  21,  189-. 

Camssima:  Your  dear  little  note  came  in  the  nick  of  time. 
You  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  it  saved  a  life  —  mine  —  from 
asphyxia,  or  apoplexy,  or  some  nameless  mode  of  exit  from  this 
horrid  existence,  called  Life.  It  was  thus.  There  is  one  awful 
season  here,  as  you  know,  when  men  and  women  have  to  breathe 
vapour,  often  miasmatic,  in  a  temperature  of  120°  Fahrenheit. 
There  are  punkahs  and  iced  drinks  and  scandals,  and  such  other 
stimulants  as  may  make  existence  barely  tolerable,  but  there  are 
times  when  nothing  short  of  an  earthquake  can  give  you  the  slightest 
interest  in  life.  Such  a  moment  was  that  when,  reclining  in  a 
hammock  on  the  veranda,  your  letter  wa:s  placed  in  my  hand.  I 
was  completely  used  up,  could  not  breathe,  nor  speak:  could  only 
wonder  at  the  native  woman,  who,  cool  and  unfiurried,  went  about 
arranging  things,  whilst  the  arteries  in  my  neck  and  temples  were 
swelling  and  throbbing,  and  the  next  thing  would  be  —  Suddenly 
came  your  note,  un  higlietto  di  cielo,  and,  yes,  carissima,  I  am  not 
jesting,  it  woke  me  to  life  again.  I  did  not  shriek  out,  nor  faint. 
Both  would  be  unbecoming,  as  you  know  —  and,  whatever  happens, 
we  must  do  what  is  decorous,  even  in  India.  But  I  started,  and 
said  something  violent:  "Cielo  "  or  something  (but  no  one  heard 
me);  and  the  shock,  pardon  the  expression,  dearest,  has  given  me 
back  to  life  —  to  English  official  life  in  Calcutta  —  for  another 
season.  So  you  have  commenced  the  new  role  you  will  have  to  play 
as  benefactress  to  your  quondam  friend  and  Mentoress.  But, 
what  do  I  think?  Nothing,  dearest,  I  can't  think.  That  is,  no 
effort  of  fancy  can  picture  the  little  fay,  Mab,  in  the  awful  tragedy 
12  177 


178  LISHEEN 

of  married  life.  There,  now!  Forgive  me!  I  must  not  depress 
you.  No  fear,  I  hear  you  say.  Nothing  can  depress  me.  I  know 
it  well;  and  hence  do  I  write  in  answer  to  your  request;  but  in  terms 
which  would  kill  another  girl;  but  at  which  you  will  merely  smile. 

But  I  must  answer  your  conundrum.  Of  course,  it  will  answer 
itself  by  and  by;  but  I  cannot  deprive  myself  of  the  pleasure  of  say- 
ing some  far-off  day  when  we  meet :  /  told  you  1 

And  now,  dearest,  sweetest  little  Mab,  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it. 
Hitherto,  you  have  been  a  child,  a  spectator,  down  there  in  the  pit, 
or  in  some  cosey  box,  calmly  munching  caramels,  or  grapes,  and 
watching  the  little  drama  on  the  stage.  Doubtless,  you  have  often 
thought  how  much  nicer  it  would  be  to  go  up  and  mingle,  as  one  of 
themselves,  with  all  the  knights  and  kings  and  princesses  and  heroines 
behind  the  footlights.  You  are  quite  wrong;  but,  Che  sara,  sard.. 
You  have  envied  the  princess  and  the  priestess  and  the  shepherd 
girl  and  the  heroine.  You  have  uttered  the  fatal  wish;  and,  lo!  you 
are  in  the  green-room,  far  behind  the  scenes  and  lights,  and  all  is 
revealed.  Yes;  there  are  the  supers  and  the  attendants  and  the 
prompter  and  the  dresser.  There  are  the  pulleys  and  the  ropes. 
The  golden  helmet  on  King  Arthur  is  tinsel  and  his  shining  breast- 
plate of  steel  is  but  paper;  and  his  sword,  Excalibur,  is  a  painted 
lath.  The  awful  thunder  is  hidden  in  yonder  tray;  and  the  light- 
ning in  that  paper  of  magnesia.  And  all  the  princes  and  prin- 
cesses are  in  deshabille,  sitting  idly  on  the  stage  properties,  talking 
scandal  and  drinking  eau-de-vie.  Yonder  Sir  Galahad  is  flirting 
with  Elaine;  and  Vivien  is  cajoling  some  aged  Merlin,  not  for 
his  secret  magic,  but  for  his  money.  For  all  things  begin,  and 
end,  here.  You  did  not  expect  this.  No,  dearest,  of  course  not; 
nor  do  you  believe  it  now.  You  think  me  an  old,  croaking  raven, 
unprophetic,  but  for  the  fatal  Nevermore!  Ah,  yes;  that  Nevermore! 
It  means  you  cannot  go  back  to  the  stalls  or  box  again  —  never  again 
be  a  spectator  of  the  mighty  drama.  Only  an  actor.  That  is,  hide 
as  you  like  between  old  trunks  and  canvasses,  there  goes  the  mana- 
ger's call;  and  you  must  come  out,  and  show  yourself  and  play  your 
part  before  the  footlights.  There  is  no  shirking  the  duty  —  "Break- 
ing heart,"  "scalding  tears,"  "wounded  pride,"  "lost  opportunities" 


AN  INDIAN  LETTER  179 

—  you  cannot,  you  dare  not  plead  such  things.  Dry  your  eyes, 
and  compose  your  features,  little  Mab,  and  step  gaily  forth  from 
the  wings.  Play  well  your  part  in  the  little  drama.  Be  proud  and 
haughty  and  disdainful.  Be  cold  as  ice  and  supercilious  as  — 
Mephisto.  Contemn  all  things  and  all  persons;  and  the  audience 
will  worship  you.  The  world  likes  to  be  despised.  Envious  eyes 
will  watch  you  through  opera  glasses  to  detect  a  flaw  in  your  cos- 
tume, a  blur  in  your  accent,  a  spot  on  your  hands  or  face.  Be  per- 
fect and  despise  them.  They  will  repay  you  with  envy;  and  what 
more  can  human  heart  desire  ?  Play  well  your  part.  Life  is  but  a 
drama;  and  no  one  can  ask  of  maid  or  mortal  to  do  more. 

But,  when  you  go  back  to  the  dressing-room  —  there,  I  shall  say 
no  more.     I  have  said  too  much.     And,  Che  sard,  sard. 

I  am  wondering  whether  your  future  husband  is  the  delicate 
boy  I  used  to  know  long  ago  —  Bob,  Bob,  Bob  Something!  I 
remember  how  you  used  to  tease  him,  ridicule  his  little  peace- 
offerings,  laugh  at  his  moodiness,  and  call  him  back  with  a  word 
or  look.  Well,  do  you  know,  dear  Mab,  I  hked  him.  The  boy 
had  a  heart  that  could  love;  and  that  is  something,  if  the  thing  is 
not  petrified  long  ago  by  contact  with  the  world.  I  think  my  little 
Mab  would  be  happy  with   him,  unless',  unless  —  shall  I  say  it  ? 

—  she  would  practise  too  frequently,  once  too  frequently,  her  little 
caprices  and  wiles,  and  then?  There  are  some  natures  that  bear 
and  bear  and  forbear,  apparently  forever,  the  little  frictions  of  life; 
and  show  no  more  heat  or  fire  than  a  piece  of  sandal-wood.  And 
then,  one  day  they  flare  up  suddenly  into  a  huge  blaze  of  passion; 
and  then  die  out  sadly  into  little  embers  and  ashes.  And  I  think 
Bob,  Bob,  Bob  What's  His  Name?  is  one  of  those.  But  I  don't 
know. 

Mab,  dearest  little  Mab,  if  you  will  marry,  marry  a  tow-headed 
curate,  who  hasn't  a  particle  of  brains  and  but  £80  a  year,  and  you 
will  be  happy. 

You  won't  cut  a  figure  in  society;  but,  with  your  chickens  and 
vegetables  and  babies  and  the  love  of  an  honest  man,  you  will  be 
happy.  But  who  wants  to  be  happy?  No  one.  At  least,  I  see 
half  the  world  throwing  happiness  to  the  winds. 


i8o  LISHEEN 

I  am  sending  you  a  little  Indian  present.  I  hope  it  will  not  be 
broken  en  route.  And  I  shall  await,  with  much  hope,  your  account 
of  the  ceremony.  Please  write  it  in  your  most  vigorous  and  epi- 
grammatic style,  for  the  hot  season  is  with  us  yet;  and  we  haven't 
had  news  of  a  single  scandal  from  Simla  or  Peshawur  for  ever  so 
long.  And  tell  me  all  that  was  said  and  what  every  one  wore. 
I  know  you  will  keep  your  head  and  notice  things.  And  tell  me  all 
the  banalities  that  shall  be  uttered  for  long  life  and  happiness,  etc.; 
and  where  you  go  for  your  honeymoon;  and  how  you  played  your 
part  as  a  much  married  woman,  and  not  a  baby-bride  of  yesterday; 
and  how  you  stood  the  shock  of  intimacy,  and  the  revelations  of  the 
new  being,  whose  life  for  evermore  is  inextricably  linked  with  yours. 
Yes,  yes;  these  poor  benighted  Papists,  wrong  in  nearly  everything 
else,  are  right  in  holding  that  marriage  tie  inviolable.  Nay;  there 
should  be  strict  law  that  marriage  shall  not  be  dissolved  in  death; 
because  it  is  enough  for  each  human  being  to  have  one  world  re- 
vealed, and  no  more.  My!  How  I  do  run  on!  And  I'm  sure  I'm 
forgetting  lots  of  things  that  I  want  to  say;  and  there  will  be  no 
opportunity  for  another  letter.  Oh,  yes;  don't  let  that  most  detest- 
able Wedding  March  be  played!  It  is  an  abominable  sacrilege  on 
such  an  occasion.  Get  the  organist  to  play  an  "Ava  Maria,"  or  a 
sonata,  or  something,  lest,  when  looking  back,  after  many  years, 
you  should  say:  "Woe!  woe!  Marriage  bells  mark  the  time  of  a 
departing  soul."  But,  oh,  me!  I  am  writing  such  a  depressing  letter; 
and  I  know  it  ought  to  be  all  congratulations  and  rejoicings.  Put 
it  down,  dear,  to  the  awful  climate,  and  our  wretched  livers,  and 
believe  me  always, 

Cara,  Carissima,  yours, 

Edith  CmsHOLM. 

P.  S.  —  I  have  absolutely  sent  you  no  news.  But  there  is  none 
to  send.  The  same  daily  routine.  You  can  guess  its  dull,  dread 
monotony.  Up  before  dawn  —  the  only  time  of  day  and  night  when 
we  can  be  said  to  live,  for  the  air  is  crisp  and  light,  and  breathable. 
Tea  and  muffins  at  6  a.m.  Such  little  work  as  we  need  here  — 
tending  the  few  flowers  beneath  the  veranda  and  reading  some 


AN  INDIAN  LETTER  i8i 

trashy  novel.  Then,  up  comes  Sol,  red,  angry,  and  threatening, 
making  all  the  heavens  blood  and  fire.  Henceforward,  no  peace, 
no  mercy  from  the  Day  God.  Good  Heavens!  to  read  these  mad 
poets  about  pink-fingered  dawns,  when  the  dawn  is  a  fiery  furnace, 
heated  seven  times  over  as  the  bad  king  did  for  the  three  children. 
And  all  day  long  and  all  night  suffocation,  relieved  by  the  creaking 
of  the  punkah-pulleys,  and  copious  draughts  of  lemonade.  How  I 
envy  you  your  Irish  climate,  with  its  quiet  autumn  splendours  and 
mild  wet  winters.  How  I  long  for  the  cool,  sweet,  Irish  rains  that 
fall  so  noiselessly,  unlike  the  angry  deluges  here!  And  your  cosey 
winter  firesides,  etc.,  etc.  There  is  no  news.  Oh,  yes;  do  you 
remember  that  semi-brunette,  Gerty  Richards?  Well,  they  say  she 
is  engaged  to  Lieutenant  Whitbread.  I  don't  believe  it,  although 
I  knew  he  would  be  a  catch.  He  has  but  two  lives  between  him 
and  ten  thousand  a  year  in  England;  and  one  of  these  is  an  idiot. 
There  is  some  talk  of  the  Collector  General  being  recalled  —  some- 
thing about  accounts,  which  we  poor  women  cannot  understand. 
We  know  enough  —  too  much,  God  knows!  And  one  thing  I  know 
well  is,  that  I  love  you,  dear  little  Mab,  dearly,  and  wish  you  all 
bliss  and  happiness. 

P.  P.  S.  —  I  read  this  letter  over,  a  thing  I  never  do;  and  I  had 
a  hundred  thoughts  to  tear  it  up.  What  right  have  I,  I  said,  to  send 
such  a  jeremiad  to  a  young  girl?  But  then  —  well,  then,  I  close  it 
with  a  few  bitter  tears.  It  is  the  climate,  dearest.  Please  believe 
so,  and  say  so  to  yourself.  What  a  dreadful  Slough  of  Despond 
India  must  be,  when  Edith  could  write  me  such  a  letter.  That's 
just  it.  Forgive  it  all,  forgive  it  all,  little  one;  and  be  happy,  happy, 
happy! 

E.  C. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

VISITORS   AT   LISHEEN 

A  FEW  days  after  the  priest's  visit,  the  little  household 
at  Lisheen  were  startled  by  the  sudden  appearance  in 
the  farm-yard  of  a  lady  and  gentleman,  evidently  of  su- 
perior station  in  life.  They  first  guessed  it  was  a  land- 
lord apparition;  but  this  idea  was  quickly  dispelled, 
when  the  strangers  declared  they  had  come  to  visit  the 
sick  man,  who  had  found  refuge  with  the  humble  cottiers. 
Bob  Maxwell,  convalescent,  was  sitting  by  the  kitchen 
fire,  his  hands  still  swathed  in  cotton  wool,  when  he  heard 
himself  suddenly  accosted  by  Hugh  Hamberton: 

"Well,  my  man,  and  how  are  you?  Had  a  bad  time, 
eh?" 

Maxwell  rose  with  some  pain  and  confronted  his  visitors. 
He  felt  the  least  touch  of  resentment  at  being  addressed 
so  abruptly,  and  was  about  to  answer  coldly,  when  his 
eyes  fell  on  Claire  Moulton,  who  stood  beside  her  guar- 
dian. She  was  clad  in  her  usual  simple  fashion;  and  the 
long,  black  cloak,  clasped  at  the  throat  with  some  fine 
silver  ornament,  revealed  her  tall,  shapely  figure.  The 
silk-lined  hood  was  flung  back  on  her  shoulders,  so  that 
her  head  was  bare,  but  for  the  coronal  of  hair  that  crowned 
it.  She  looked  anxiously  at  Maxwell;  and  the  interest  he 
excited  gave  a  new  animation  to  her  features,   which 

182 


VISITORS  AT  LISHEEN  183 

glowed  from  the  fresh  air  and  the  soft  winds  that  had 
played  around  them  during  their  long  drive. 

Maxwell  was  sorely  puzzled.  At  once  he  divined  that 
they  belonged  to  his  own  class  in  life;  but  the  simple, 
peasant  dress  of  the  young  lady  led  him  to  think  that  per- 
haps they  belonged  to  the  better  farming  class,  who  come 
under  the  title  of  "gentlemen  farmers."  However,  there 
was  no  mistake  about  one  thing.  Here  were  interesting 
visitors,  and  they  manifested  much  concefn  about  him. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  have  been  very  unwell.  It  was  a 
renewal  of  an  old  malady,  caught  in  a  severe  wetting." 

"So  we  heard,"  said  Hamberton,  surprised  at  the  calm, 
easy  independence  with  which  Maxwell  addressed  him. 
"These  things  are  not  easily  eliminated,  and  not  easily 
avoided,  as  we  old  duffers  know.  But  you  had  careful 
nursing?" 

Hamberton  looked  around  at  the  poor  place,  and  at  the 
men.  Claire's  eyes  rested  on  the  face  of  Debbie  McAuliffe, 
which  just  then  wore  a  strong  air  of  resentment. 

"I  shouldn't  be  alive  to-day,  had  I  not,"  said  Maxwell. 
"I  can  never  thank  these  good  people  enough  for  all 
their  kindness  to  me." 

"So  we  heard,  so  we  heard,"  said  Hamberton.  "If 
ever  I  get  unwell,  you  must  lend  me  your  young  nurse 
here.  There  is  more  in  kindness  than  in  skill.  But,  look 
here,  you  are  now  convalescent,  and  you  need  sea  air. 
Come  over  to  us  at  Brandon  Hall,  and  we'll  nurse  you 
back  to  health  again." 

Maxwell  shook  his  head;  and  yet  the  thought  of  being 
nursed  by  such  a  dainty  figure  as  Claire  Moulton  was  a 
temptation. 


1 84  LISHEEN 

"I  am  bound  to  these  good  people,"  he  said.  "They 
could  have  sent  me  out  on  the  world  to  die,  and  no  one 
could  blame  them.  They  kept  me  here  in  spite  of  doc- 
tor's solicitations  and  their  own  interests.  I  am  happy 
with  them.  There  is  no  place  where  I  can  attain  to  health 
or  happiness  so  easily  as  here.  That  is,"  he  added,  look- 
ing around,  "until  they  turn  me  out." 

The  dark  shadow  that  had  fallen  on  Debbie's  face  whilst 
Hamberton  proffered  his  invitation  now  lifted,  and  she 
actually  laughed  with  joy  at  Maxwell's  choice. 

"Ah,  I  see,"  said  Hamberton,  "ye  want  to  keep  all  the 
charity  of  the  world  to  yourselves.  Now,  that's  not  fair. 
Here  am  I,  anxious  to  do  a  little  good  in  this  queer  world 
while  I  am  in  it,  and  you  won't  let  me.  What  do  you  say 
now,  ma'am?"  he  suddenly  cried,  addressing  the  old 
woman.  "Wouldn't  it  be  only  fair,  when  you  all  have 
done  your  share  towards  this  poor  fellow,  to  allow  us  to 
have  a  hand  in  working  him  back  to  life  and  health?" 

"  Faix,  I  don't  know,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  McAuliffe.  "  Sure, 
'tis  rale  good  of  you  to  think  of  such  a  thing  at  all,  at  all; 
and  we  all  such  black  strangers  to  your  honour." 

"Never  mind  that,"  said  Hamberton,  in  his  brusque 
English  manner.  "Never  mind  that.  Here's  what  I 
propose.  I  have  an  empty  cottage  over  there  at  Brandon 
Hall.     You  know  where  Brandon  Hall  is?" 

"We  never  hard  of  it,  sir,"  said  Owen  McAuliffe. 

"You  did,  Father,"  said  Pierce,  breaking  in  for  the  first 
time.  "  Sure  everybody  knows  the  place  where  the  people 
are  getting  sich  fine  wages,  and  have  sich  fine  houses." 

"I  never  hard  of  it  before,"  said  the  old  man.  And 
Debbie  darted  a  look  of  fierce  anger  at  her  brother. 


VISITORS  AT  LISHEEN  185 

"Well,  now,  your  son  —  I  presume  he  is  your  son," 
replied  Hamberton  —  "knows  all  about  us;  and  that  we 
are  not  such  bad  folk.  Now,  if  you  will  allow  this  poor 
fellow  to  come  to  us  for  a  few  weeks,  we  will  put  him  in 
that  cottage,  give  him  all  he  requires,  nurse  him  back 
to  health  again.    What  do  you  say?" 

"The  poor  fellow,  about  whom  you  are  so  anxious," 
said  Maxwell,  with  a  slight  accent  of  resentment,  "has 
already  notified  you  of  his  intentions.  It  remains  for 
these  good  people  to  say  whether  they  wish  me  to  remain 
here  or  not!" 

"Oh,  I  meant  no  offence,"  said  Hamberton,  seeing 
Maxwell  bridle  up,  "I  assure  you.  I  just  want  to  do  all 
I  can  in  this  distressful  world  while  I'm  in  it;  and  I  just 
heard  there  was  a  fellow-countryman  of  mine  here  in  some 
trouble,  and  thought  I  could  help  him.  And  Miss  Moul- 
ton  here,  my  ward,  was  equally  anxious.  Of  course,  we 
know  that  everything  has  been  done  for  you  that  could 
be  done ;  but  we  just  thought,  that  is.  Miss  Moulton  and  I 
thought,  tliat  perhaps  you  would  come  around  quicker 
with  us." 

"Yes,"  said  Claire  Moulton,  speaking  for  the  first 
time,  "that's  just  it.  We  simply  want  to  help  on  a  bit; 
and  we  English  have  a  feeling  for  a  fellow-countryman 
in  distress.  We  wish  you  would  allow  us  to  help  you. 
We  do,  indeed." 

It  was  tempting,  was  it  not?  To  be  near  the  sea,  to 
see  its  ripples,  to  hear  its  musical  and  melancholy  wash, 
to  breathe  its  odours,  to  feel  its  invigorating  influence; 
and,  then,  to  be  nursed  back  to  convalescence  by  such 
amiable  and  interesting  people  —  surely,  it  was  not  in 


1 86  LISHEEN 

human  nature,  least  of  all  in  the  heart  of  a  solitary  man, 
to  refuse.  And,  then!  This  man,  of  whom  he  had  never 
heard  before,  was  a  philanthropist.  From  what  Pierry 
had  said  it  was  clear  that  he  had  brought  a  new  soul  into 
his  own  neighbourhood;  that  he  was  one  of  nature's 
workers,  who  would  clear  the  bog  and  sweeten  the  fen 
and  drain  the  moorland,  and  lift  the  people  out  of  the 
Slough  of  Despond;  and  be,  in  fact,  a  man  of  light  and 
leading  to  himself.  And  there  was  no  doubt,  so  Maxwell 
swiftly  admitted  to  himself,  that  hitherto  his  own  mission 
had  been  a  failure.  He  had  suffered,  but  effected  nothing; 
and  where's  the  use  in  needless  suffering,  where  no  results 
come  forth?  What  if  he  joined  hands  with  this  power- 
ful man,  this  bright  and  cheerful  girl,  and,  revealing  his 
own  wishes,  enlist  them  in  the  same  sacred  cause?  But, 
then! 

He  looked  away  from  Claire  Moulton's  face  and  saw 
Debbie  McAuliffe's,  silent,  pallid,  suffering.  He  saw  the 
old  woman  wiping  away  a  secret  tear  with  her  check 
apron;  and  he  made  up  his  mind. 

"I'm  sure,"  he  said,  "I  am  deeply  obliged  for  your 
kindness.  But  I  am  not  a  fellow-countryman.  I  am  an 
Irishman.  And  I  am  not  in  distress.  I  am  poor;  but  I 
have  wanted  for  nothing.  And  no  rich  man  can  boast 
of  more.  I  am  happy  with  these  good  people;  and  have 
no  wish  to  change." 

Claire  was  looking  wistfully  at  him.  He  felt  her  eyes 
pleading  with  him.     But  he  was  firm. 

"Well,"  said  Hamberton,  "we're  disappointed;  and  you 
are,  like  all  your  countrymen,  a  fool  to  throw  away  a 
splendid  offer  of  a  new  home,  good  wages,  light  work  — " 


VISITORS  AT  LISHEEN  187 

He  felt  Claire's  hand  on  his  arm,  and  was  suddenly 
silent.     She  interposed. 

"You  will  allow  us  to  call  again?"  she  said  to  Debbie, 
who  was  staring  angrily  through  the  open  door.  "We 
sometimes  drive  around  here,  and  would  like  to  see  you 
all  again,  if  we  may?" 

The  girl  was  silent.     The  mother  spoke. 

"Wisha,  sure,  Miss,  we'll  be  glad  to  see  you,  and  wel- 
come at  all  times.  'Tis  good  of  you  to  come  so  far  and 
see  a  poor  boy,  who  has  nayther  father,  nor  mother,  nor 
home  to  go.  You'll  be  welcome.  Miss,  at  all  times  to  us, 
like  all  other  dacent,  honest  people." 

"Well,  then,  we'll  say  good-bye!"  said  Hamberton. 
"Should  you  change  your  mind,"  he  continued,  address- 
ing Maxwell,  "just  drop  a  note  to  Mr.  Hamberton, 
Brandon  Hall;  or,  better  still,  walk  over.  'Tis  only 
about  seven  or  eight  miles  from  here;  and  we'll  put  you 
up." 

"Thank  you!"  said  Maxwell,  curtly.  And  after  a  smile 
from  Claire  Moulton,  and  a  deep  courtesy  from  Mrs. 
McAuliffe,  the  visitors  left  the  cabin.  Debbie  stood  like 
a  statue,  and  made  no  sign,  and  spoke  no  word  of  farewell. 

Guardian  and  ward  had  driven  a  mile  or  so  in  silence 
before  the  latter  said: 

"You  see,  Uncle,  Father  Cosgrove  was  right.  There 
is  some  virtue  in  the  world." 

"Yes,  by  Jove!"  he  replied,  "there  is.  What  a  strange 
people !  To  take  in  a  tramp,  a  beggar,  and  keep  him  and 
nurse  him  through  a  dangerous  illness,  without  hope  of 
recompense!  Yes:  there  is  a  little  hope  yet  for  this  most 
disastrous  world." 


1 88  LISHEEN 

"You'll  have  to  make  a  humble  admission  of  your 
incredulity  and  conversion,"  said  Claire  Moulton, 

''Yes,  I  will,"  he  said.  "The  priest  is  right,  even 
though  this  is  probably  the  only  case  to  be  found  in  the 
world.  This  is  genuine  though.  No  hypocrisy  or  de- 
ception there." 

"None  whatever,"  said  his  ward,  smiling.  "The  people 
are  transparent  as  glass.  They  have  not  learned  the 
tricks  of  the  world.     Did  you  notice  that  young  girl?" 

"N  —  no,  not  particularly!"  said  Hamberton.  "She 
struck  me  as  a  strong,  buxom,  country  wench;  and  no 
more." 

"She  stabbed  me  with  her  eyes  while  you  were  speak- 
ing," said  his  ward.  "I  think  she  is  interested  in  that 
boy." 

"No,  no,"  cried  Hamberton.  "These  Irish  are  as 
proud  as  Spaniards,  from  whom  they  trace  their  blood; 
and  the  daughter  of  a  farmer  would  no  more  marry  a 
labouring  man  than  a  baron  would  marry  a  kitchen 
wench.  And  this  man  from  whom  we  have  got  such  a 
cold  shoulder  is  but  a  farm  hand,  and,  from  what  we  have 
heard,  a  tramp." 

Claire  Moulton  was  now  silent.  They  drove  rapidly 
homeward  and  talked  of  other  things.  It  was  only  after 
dinner  that  she  asked  her  guardian  if  he  believed  that 
Maxwell  was  but  a  farm  hand  or  a  tramp. 

"  Ton  my  soul,  Claire,  I  think  you  are  interested  in  the 
fellow.    Are  you  now?" 

"There  are  others  more  interested  than  I,"  she  said. 

"You  mean  the  family,  the  people  who  have  housed 
him?" 


VISITORS  AT  LISHEEN  189 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"  Of  course  they  are.  We  saw  that.  But  what  do  you 
mean?" 

''I  mean  that  I  think  you  have  still  the  victory  over  Mr. 
Cosgrove.  That  man  is  a  gentleman;  and  they  know 
it." 

Hamberton  was  slow  to  grasp  her  meaning.  When  he 
did,  he  stared  at  her  blankly  for  a  moment,  and  said: 

" Good  God!  what  moles  we  are  compared  with  women! 
But,  why  do  you  say  so,  Claire  ?  I  could  see  no  marks  of 
that." 

"If  he  were  a  soldier,"  said  Claire,  "he  would  have 
straightened  himself  and  stood  to  attention.  If  he  were 
a  workman,  he  would  have  said,  sir.  He  spoke  to  you 
as  an  equal,  did  he  not?" 

"By  Jove,  yes,"  said  Hamberton.  "And,  what  is 
more,  he  had  the  address  and  language  of  a  gentleman. 
But,  no;  that's  impossible!  What,  in  heaven's  name, 
would  bring  a  gentleman  there?" 

"That's  a  mystery,"  said  his  ward,  "which  time  will 
umavel.  But  you  have  the  victory  over  Mr.  Cosgrove 
so  far." 

"True.  And  the  thing  is  interesting  in  itself,  is  it  not? 
We  must  watch  the  development  of  it.  It  is  something 
to  have  a  mystery  to  unravel  so  near  us.  But,  every- 
thing is  a  mystery  and  a  paradox  in  Ireland.  We  shall 
go  there  again  soon.     Shall  we  not?" 

"I  won't,"  said  Claire. 

"Won't?  You  will.  Or  I  shall  say  you  are  jealous 
of  that  little  country  girl.  No;  not  jealous,  but 
afraid." 


190  LISHEEN 

"Very  well,  I  will,"  said  Claire.  "The  thing  may  be 
interesting.  Whatever  the  man  is,  there  is  a  story  some- 
where in  his  life;  and  I  am  getting  tired  of  Ned  Galwey 
and  his  potatoes." 

Which  allusion  will  be  explained  in  subsequent 
chapters. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

TESTING  FOR  GOLD 

The  anticipated  victory  over  Father  Cosgrove  had 
its  origin  in  one  of  those  frequent  conversations  between 
himself  and  Hamberton  that  went  on  at  Brandon  Hall. 
Nothing  pleased  the  cynical  Englishman  more  than  re- 
futing the  optimism  of  the  humble  priest,  who  saw  all 
things  in  the  mirror  of  his  own  guilelessness  and  self- 
effacement.  Many  a  debate,  that  would  have  been 
heated  but  for  the  gentleness  of  the  old  priest  and  the 
laughter  of  Claire  Moulton,  took  place  as  to  whether 
pure  disinterestedness  could  exist  in  this  world,  and  under 
the  ordinary  conditions  of  humanity.  For  a  long  time 
the  priest  had  the  victory  in  the  very  immediacy  of  Ham- 
berton's  own  workmen,  who  had  been  loyal  and  obedient 
and  faithful,  not  so  much  from  a  sense  of  the  profits  that 
might  accrue,  as  from  gratitude  to  so  excellent  a  bene- 
factor. 

"Psha!"  Hamberton  would  cry,  "the  fellows  would 
turn  against  me  to-morrow  if  another  employer  came 
who  would  offer  them  a  shilling  a  week  more.  They 
know  they  can't  do  better.  Gratitude  ?  There's  no  such 
thing!" 

"Well,  I  misunderstand  them  very  much  if  that  is  the 
case,"  said  the  priest.  "I  go  amongst  them  a  good  deal; 
and,  believe  me,  if  you  needed  it,  there  are  a  hundred 

191 


192  LISHEEN 

willing  hands  at  your  command.  As  for  Miss  Moulton, 
you  know  her  presence  is  a  sunbeam  in  the  poorest  cot- 
tage." 

"For  what  she  brings!"  said  Hamberton. 

"No,  no,  if  she  came  empty-handed,  she  would  be  just 
as  welcome.     Is  this  not  so,  Miss  Moulton?" 

"It  is  so.  Father.  Uncle  is  wrong,  all  wrong.  I'm 
sure  the  people  are  not  grasping.  At  least,  I  should  be 
much  disappointed  if  I  found  it  otherwise." 

"And  you  will  find  it,"  said  Hamberton. 

"Never!  never!"  Father  Cosgrove  said  emphatically. 
"The  day  Miss  Moulton's  shadow  shall  not  be  welcome 
across  every  threshold  in  this  parish  I  shall  despair." 

"We  shall  see,"  said  Hamberton.  Swiftly  and  sud- 
denly came  his  prophecy  and  his  justification. 

He  was,  as  we  have  said,  much  in  the  habit  of  searching 
for  minerals,  and  picking  up  bits  of  quartz,  etc.,  in  which 
might  be  a  possibility  of  gold.  And  a  few  times  he 
journeyed  to  London  to  have  these  specimens  tested. 
This  did  not  escape  the  sharp  eyes  of  his  workmen,  who 
at  once  attributed  their  own  unusual  wages  to  the  fact 
that  Hamberton  had  found  gold,  and  "was  coining." 
The  marbles,  they  argued,  bits  of  coloured  stone,  could 
not  pay  him;  nor  could  any  explanation  of  his  presence 
on  this  wild  Kerry  coast,  and  his  munificence  to  them- 
selves, be  found,  but  in  the  fact  that  he  had  discovered 
some  auriferous  vein,  and  was  secretly  working  it.  These 
poor  workers  had  as  poor  an  opinion  of  human  nature 
as  Hamberton  himself.  They  would  have  killed  with 
scorn  the  idea  that  any  man  could  do  good  from  purely 
philanthropic  motives.     Their  school  had  been  a  hard 


TESTING  FOR  GOLD  193 

one;  and  there  had  been  no  place  for  high  or  generous 
estimates  of  their  kind. 

The  ring-leader  in  this  new  suspicious  movement 
towards  Hamberton  was  a  small  farmer  and  day-labourer 
named  Ned  Galwey  —  a  knowledgeable  man,  because 
he  had  been  at  a  Kerry  hedge-school  and  could  say  the 
answering  at  Mass.  'Tis  quite  true  his  quantities  were 
not  always  correct,  and  he  had  a  tendency  to  mix  Irish 
and  Latin  together.  But  he  was  the  "best  ejjicated" 
man  in  the  townland,  and  there  was  considerable  defer- 
ence for  his  opinion.  Ned  had  watched  with  shrewd, 
suspicious  eyes  the  taste  Hamberton  had  manifested  for 
certain  pieces  of  rock,  and  certain  kinds  of  gravel;  and  he 
concluded  that  the  "masther"  was  finding  gold  and 
secretly  amassing  a  huge  fortune.  And  what  were  their 
wages?  In  one  sense  good;  but,  relatively  to  the  vast 
wealth  Hamberton  was  secretly  accumulating,  simply  a 
mere  pittance.  He  brooded  over  the  matter  a  long  time, 
whispered  his  suspicions  to  others;  and  then,  unknown 
even  to  his  confederates,  he  made  several  careful  assays 
himself. 

He  secreted  a  large  quantity  of  gravel,  and  took  it  by 
night  to  a  lonely  spot  where  a  clear,  mountain  stream 
rolled  down  amongst  grasses  and  hardy  ferns,  until  it  lost 
itself  in  the  sea.  In  the  deep  midnight,  and  lighted  only 
by  a  dim  stable  lantern,  he  washed  the  red  gravel,  eagerly 
looking  for  some  dim  specks  that  would  reveal  the  pres- 
ence of  gold.  Alas!  nothing  remained  but  a  little  red 
mud,  that  refused  to  scintillate  in  the  light. 

Then  he  got  some  quartz  and  broke  it  into  powder  in 
his  back  yard,  his  good  wife  wondering  what  he  was 
13 


194  LISHEEN 

searching  for.  This,  too,  was  a  failure.  A  couple  of 
flakes  of  some  glinting  material,  that  looked  like  glass, 
and  this  was  all.  The  dream  of  untold  wealth  had 
vanished  from  his  eyes,  only  to  make  him  more  and  more 
certain  that  Hambcrton  held  the  secret.  So,  by  degrees, 
many  murmurings  were  heard,  as  the  disaffection  gained 
ground,  and  the  belief  in  Hamberton's  millions  held  them 
spellbound. 

He  listened  patiently  and  said  nothing;  but,  like  a  calm 
Englishman,  he  made  inquiries,  and  found  that  that  un- 
successful miner,  Ned  Galwey,  was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
discontent  that  now  raged  amongst  his  people.  He  also 
heard  —  there  is  a  traitor  in  every  camp  —  of  Ned's 
unsuccessful  assaying  for  gold;  and  he  took  his  revenge. 

In  the  hearing  of  a  young  son  of  Ned's  —  a  little  fellow, 
cute  as  a  fox  and  cunning  as  a  weasel  —  he  threw  out  a 
hint  that,  unless  the  quartz  were  boiled  down  until  every 
grain  of  earth  or  clay  were  eliminated,  and  unless  the 
gravel  were  similarly  boiled  in  a  leathern  bag,  the  gold 
would  refuse  to  appear.  The  hint  was  taken;  and  Ned's 
poor  wife  had  hard  times  during  the  next  few  weeks  to 
boil  the  potatoes  and  cabbage  for  the  midday  dinner, 
while  Ned's  stout  pots  were  simmering  with  huge  deposits 
of  quartz  and  gravel. 

Hamberton  waited  for  a  few  days;  and  then  strolled  in, 
as  was  his  wont,  and  talked  to  the  cottagers  in  his  easy, 
familiar  style  —  talked  about  the  weather  and  the  crops 
and  the  hay  and  the  potatoes. 

"By  the  way,  Mrs.  Galwey,"  he  cried,  going  over  and 
stirring  with  the  ferule  on  his  cane  the  huge  masses  of 
quartz  that  were  being  boiled  in  one  of  the  largest  pots, 


TESTING  FOR  GOLD  195 

"I    heard    that    you    had    excellent    potatoes.      These 
they?" 

"Yes,  your  'anncr,"  said  the  poor  woman.  "They're 
wanderful  intirely  this  year,  Glory  be  to  God!" 

"They  look  nice  and  floury,"  Hamberton  said.  "But 
they  seem  rather  hard." 

"They'll  come  all  right  when  they're  well  biled,"  said 
Ned,  looking  suspiciously  at  Hamberton  out  of  the  corners 
of  his  eyes. 

"And  this,"  said  Hamberton,  stirring  up  the  bag  which, 
in  another  pot,  held  the  auriferous  gravel,  "a  leg  of  mutton, 
by  Jove!  That's  right!  That's  just  what  we  want!  I 
can  boast  now,  like  the  French  king,  that  there  is  a  fowl 
or  something  better  in  every  pot  in  my  little  kingdom." 

"God  bless  your  'anner.  Sure,  'tis  to  you  and  to  the 
grate  God  we  owe  everything." 

Hamberton  should  bring  Claire  to  see  the  wonderful 
prosperity  of  his  people.     The  pots  were  still  simmering, 

"Look  here,  Claire,  look  at  this,"  he  cried,  again  stir- 
ring up  the  quartz,  "look  at  these  for  potatoes!" 

"They  are  not  potatoes!"  said  Claire  Moulton,  who 
was  not  in  the  joke.     "They  seem  hard  as  stones." 

"An'  sure  they  are  shtones,  me  lady,"  said  Mrs.  Gal- 
wey.  "Sure,  we  left  the  masther  have  his  little  joke 
about  potatoes,  and  the  King  of  France,  and  every  wan 
with  a  chicken  in  his  pot.  Them's  only  chanies  that  Ned 
does  be  clanin'  to  put  on  the  dhresser,  or  outside  on  the 
wall." 

"The  devil!"  said  Hamberton.  "And  the  leg  of  mut- 
ton?    I  suppose  that's  meal  for  the  chickens?" 

"Ycrra,  no,  yer  'anner;  sure  you're  innicent.     That's 


196  LISHEEN 

only  a  little  sand  up  from  the  sayshore  that  Ned  does  be 
screenin'  to  make  cimment  for  the  little  piggery  outside!" 

Hamberton  laughed  quietly;  but  he  spread  the  story 
far  and  wide  amongst  the  men,  about  Ned  Galwey  boiling 
quartz  for  chanies  and  boiling  gravel  for  cement.  The 
rest  were  not  slow  to  understand;  and  public  opinion 
veered  around,  and  set  steadily  against  avaricious  Ned. 
And  he  had  to  stand  a  running  fire  of  questions  ever  after; 
for  the  Irish  are  unrelenting  when  they  have  turned  a  joke 
against  some  poor  victim. 

"Yerra,  Ned,  are  the  praties  biled  a-yet?" 

"Yerra,  Ned,  when  will  ye  be  axin'  us  up  to  ate  that 
leg  of  mutton  wid  ye?" 

"Begor,  we  know  who's  coinin'.  'Tisn't  crocks  of 
goold,  but  rocks  of  goold  we're  afther  findin'  nowadays." 

"Well,  Mary"  — to  the  wife  — "plase  God,  we'll  see 
you,  one  of  these  days,  rowlin'  in  yer  carridge  and  pair." 

"Wisha,  thin,  sure  'tis  we  don't  begridge  you  yer  good 
fortune.  Sure  ye  aimed  it  hard,  stirrin'  and  bilin'  and 
rinsin'  night  after  night.  'Tis  the  divil's  own  work  to 
get  at  that  same  goold;  and,  sure,  whin  ye  have  it,  little 
good  it  is,  they  say." 

Father  Cosgrove  was  taken  into  the  confidence  of  Ham- 
berton; but  only  half-way.  In  his  simple,  guileless  fashion 
he  believed  that  his  poor  parishioners  had  received  a 
sudden  accession  of  wealth,  and  he  was  genuinely  glad 
of  it. 

"I'm  delighted  to  hear  ye  have  come  in  for  somethin' 
good,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Galwey. 

"  Yerra,  no,  yer  reverence,"  the  poor  woman  would  say, 
"but  they  must  be  afther  havin'  their  jokes." 


TESTING  FOR  GOLD 


197 


"But  all  this  golden  quartz  and  gravel  that  Ned  has 
been  breakin'  up!  I  believe  Mr,  Hamberton  thought 
they  were  potatoes." 

"His  'anner  is  fond  of  his  fun  wid  poor  people,"  she 
would  reply.  "And,  sure,  we're  depindin'  on  him,  and 
can't  say  a  word  agin'  him." 

And  they  didn't.  They  saw  the  "masther"  was  no 
joke;  and  that  there  was  pretty  deep  meaning  in  his  jest- 
ing. And  he  would  have  punished  Ned  Galwey  severely, 
but  that  he  argued,  in  his  own  cynical  way:  He's  no  worse 
than  every  one  else!  Poor  devil!  What  is  he  doing,  but 
what  every  capitalist  and  speculator  is  doing  the  wide 
world  over? 

But  the  discontent  and  conspiracy  were  at  an  end. 
They  were  killed  by  the  practical  jest. 

"These  Irish  are  like  the  Jacobins,"  said  Hamberton. 
"A  clever  mot  will  always  pull  down  the  barricades." 

But  it  gave  him  the  text  for  a  little  homily  which  he 
preached  at  Father  Cosgrove  some  time  after. 

"There  are  two  classes  of  men  in  the  world,  Rev.  dear 
Father,  that  are  intolerable  —  preachers  and  novelists. 
The  former,  because  they  teach  a  religion  whose  prac- 
tices they  know  to  be  impossible;  the  latter,  because  they 
paint  an  ideal  world,  a  Utopia  of  morality  and  goodness 
and  benevolence,  which  never  existed  and  never  could 
exist.  Every  sensible  man  knows  that  the  real  and  only 
business  of  life  is  getting  something  —  pleasure,  profit, 
revenge,  victory;  a  wife,  her  money,  large  dividends, 
broad  acres,  your  enemies  under  your  feet,  your  friends 
fearing  you  and  depending  on  you.  Now,  when  we  all 
know  this  to  be  the  sum  and  aim  of  all  human  existence, 


198  LISHEEN 

why  will  a  certain  class  of  men  in  snowy  surplices  take  to 
telling  us  that  this  —  the  fact  that  stares  us  all  in  the 
face  —  is  a  delusion,  that  it  does  not  exist  ?  What  would 
we  do  with  a  man  that  would  tell  us  the  sun  doesn't  shine 
at  midday,  nor  the  stars  at  night;  that  fire  doesn't  burn, 
and  cold  doesn't  freeze?  Clap  a  strait-jacket  on  him. 
And  that's  just  what  I'd  do  with  all  preachers.  Strip 
them,  unfrock  them,  as  good  Queen  Bess  did;  and  clap 
on  the  strait-jacket.  But  these  confounded  day-dreamers 
and  romancers  are  worse.  They  pretend  that  such  a 
cloud-world  is  realized  in  everyday  life;  they  give  the 
credulous  world  pictures  of  pure  attachment,  generous 
deeds,  high  motives,  sincerity,  honour,  which  every  one 
knows  cannot,  and  do  not,  exist.  What  is  the  result? 
Plainly,  that  the  young  and  unsophisticated,  instead  of 
being  taught  the  terrible  truths  of  existence,  go  out  as 
day-dreamers  into  a  hard  and  terrible  world;  and  have 
to  learn  by  bitter,  personal  experience  that  what  their 
romancers  taught  them  is  all  a  lie.  And  'tis  all  the  same 
and  everywhere  the  same.  London  broker  and  Kerry 
peasant,  American  trust-thief  and  Ned  Galwey  —  'tis 
all  the  same.     By  the  way,  I'll  break  that  fellow,  I  think!" 

"No,  no,  you  mustn't,"  said  Father  Cosgrove.  "He 
has  a  big  family  and  is  not  a  bad  fellow  at  heart." 

"Certainly  not.  A  first-rate  fellow,  until  he  was  bitten 
by  the  mad  dog.  Well,  for  your  sake,  I'll  give  him  a 
chance.  But  don't  speak  of  disinterestedness  again. 
There's  no  such  thing." 

"There  is,  there  is,  there  is,"  said  Father  Cosgrove 
triumphantly,  at  which  Hamberton  bent  his  eyebrows 
and  Claire  Moulton  laughed. 


TESTING  FOR   GOLD  199 

"Another  mare's  nest?  O  man,  great  is  thy  faith!" 
said  Hamberton. 

"What  would  you  think,  now,  of  a  family  in  this 
parish,"  said  Father  Cosgrove,  "in  this  parish,"  he  con- 
tinued slowly,  trying  to  make  his  description  graphic, 
"and  within  a  few  miles  from  here  —  a  poor  family,  a 
very  poor  family,  whose  cattle  had  been  seized  for  rent, 
or  rather  driven  away,  lest  they  should  be  seized  — " 

"That's  better,"  said  Hamberton.     "Go  on!" 

"Well,  this  family,  rack-rented,  poor,  distrained,  took 
in  a  poor  fellow,  a  wandering  tramp  from  nobody  knew 
where,  fed  him,  clothed  him;  and  when  he  was  sick,  as  he 
was  lately,  nursed  him,  and  wouldn't  allow  him  to  go  to 
the  Workhouse  Hospital  —  wouldn't  allow  him  to  go  to 
the  Workhouse  Hospital,  although  he  had  fever  —  'twas 
only  rheumatic,  but  still  it  was  fever  —  defied  doctor, 
nursed  him  themselves  through  all  that  fever,  stayed  up 
at  night  with  him,  and  —  and  —  and  — " 

"  Were  well  paid  in  the  long  run,  I  bet,"  said  Hamberton. 

"Paid?  How  could  he  pay?  A  tramp,  a  beggar,  and 
an  Englishman,"  said  Father  Cosgrove. 

"That  caps  the  climax,"  said  Hamberton.  "When 
they  could  take  an  Englishman  to  their  heart,  they  must 
be  Gospel  Christians  in  very  deed." 

"Well,  see  for  yourself,"  said  the  priest.  "And, 
mind  you,  these  poor  people  had  to  get  milk  for  that 
poor  fellow  down  from  where  their  cows  were  hidden 
on  the  mountain.  And,  mind  you,  they  hardly  know 
his  name;  and  they  certainly  don't  know  where  he  came 
from." 

"Have  they  no  suspicion?"  said  Hamberton. 


200  LISHEEN 

"Suspicion?  Yes;  but  only  suspicion.  They  think 
he  is  a  deserter  from  the  armyl" 

"Hallo!  That  explains  it,"  said  Hamberton.  "There 
always  is  an  explanation.  They  are  'agin  the  govern- 
ment'; and  it  is  a  satisfaction  to  know  they  are  sheltering 
a  rebel.  There  it  is,  always  something  besides  real 
sympathy  and  love.  But  we  must  see  our  fellow-country- 
man, Claire,  and  bring  him  over  here.  There's  an  empty 
cottage  down  there  near  that  scoundrel's,  Ned  Galwey; 
and  we'll  put  him  there,  and  he  can  keep  a  watch  on  Ned's 
prospecting.  I'll  give  that  fellow  one  chance  for  your 
sake.  Father;  but  if  I  find  him  tampering  with  the  men, 
I'll  certainly  dismiss  him.  By  the  way,  where  does  this 
model  family  live?" 

"At  Lisheen,  about  six  miles  to  the  east  of  this.  You'll 
find  what  I  say  is  right." 

"Very  good,  mon  phe,  we'll  give  you  every  chance 
to  prove  your  optimism.  Lisheen!  Lisheen!  Claire,  re- 
member the  name!" 

Well  she  did  remember  it.  They  visited  Lisheen,  with 
the  result  we  have  described. 


CHAPTER  XrX 

A  LETTER  FROM   IRELAND 

Dublin,  December  12,  18 — . 

Dearest  Edith:  I  have  been  in  the  green-room,  and  have  seen 
it  all,  just  as  you  describe;  but  I  have  not  seen  the  awful  banalities 
you  imagine.  And  I  have  been  on  the  stage  —  a  little  —  and  I 
think,  but  I  must  not  be  too  sure  as  yet,  until  I  have  heard  the 
critics,  that  I  performed  my  little  part  fairly  vi'ell.  The  audience 
was  vulgar  enough,  loudly-dressed  and  vacantly  staring.  My  six 
bridesmaids  were  under  sixteen  —  this  I  insisted  upon;  four  were 
under  twelve.  They  haven't  bitten  the  apple  of  the  Tree  of  Life  as 
yet,  and  are  still  in  their  primeval  innocence.  But  Maud  Beresford 
kissed  me,  which  is  a  good  sign;  and  others,  some  not  in  my  hearing, 
but  all  things  return,  nodded  and  whispered:  "An'  if  she  knew"; 
and,  "Was  that  a  wedding-bell  or  a  passing-bell?"  And  one  said: 
"Pride  goeth  before  a  fall";  from  all  which  you  will  conjecture, 
dearest,  that  my  debut  on  the  stage  of  married  life  was  a  fair  success. 
At  least,  I  like  it.  The  prompter's  call  has  no  terrors  for  me;  and  I 
think  my  complexion  stands  well  the  footlights.  No;  I  have  not  the 
slightest  desire  to  go  back  to  those  lonely  and  stupid  boxes  again. 
I  have  gone  beyond  the  caramels  and  the  sugared  lemons;  and  I 
was  tired  of  mere  staring  and  wondering.  "Give  me  action,  action," 
was  the  cry  of  my  heart;  and  my  cry  has  been  heard;  and  it  shall  go 
ill  with  me  if  I  do  not  perform  my  part  so  well  as  to  excite  the  ad- 
miration of  my  friends,  the  spleen  of  my  enemies;  and  what  more 
can  human  female  heart  desire? 

But  to  drop  metaphor  —  you  led  me  into  the  detestable  habit  — ■ 
why  did  you  write  me  such  a  doleful,  lugubrious  letter?  If  it  were 
written  from  foggy  London  —  where  we  have  just  been,  the  fog 


202  LISriEEN 

yellow  as  the  Tiber  and  thick  as  the  darkness  of  Egypt  —  I  could 
understand  it.  Everything  is  thick  and  heavy  there;  and  the  atmos- 
phere clogs  the  ink  in  the  pen,  and  the  thoughts  in  the  brain;  and 
Puck  could  not  be  merry.  But  to  get  such  a  letter  as  yours  from 
"India's  coral  strand,"  from  the  land  of  shining  pagodas  and  skies 
of  eternal  blue  —  it  was  a  profanation.  Rainy  reasons  and  steam- 
ing grasses  and  tropical  heats  won't  explain  it.  What  is  it,  dearest 
Edith  ?  There  is  a  note  of  sadness,  even  of  despair,  running  through 
it  all.  Surely  your  life  is  not  unhappy.  I  cannot  think  it.  You  — 
who  were  so  jolly,  so  careless,  so  light-hearted  —  to  send  me,  and 
on  such  an  occasion,  so  terrible  a  forecast!  Write  again,  dearest 
Edith,  and  say  you  retract  it  all,  that  it  was  all  a  horrible  blunder, 
brought  on  by  the  heat  depression.  Or  else  I  shall  never  allow 
Ralph  to  return  to  India.  But  I  haven't  told  you  about  Ralph. 
Don't  start  at  the  name.  The  boy  you  mentioned  —  he  was  but  a 
boy,  compared  with  Ralph  —  took  a  mild  attack  of  insanity,  a 
strange  weird  delusion,  from  excessive  reading  and  poring  over 
nonsensical  books;  and  has  gone  down  to  the  south  of  Ireland  on 
some  Quixotic  expedition,  from  which  it  is  expected  he  cannot  return 
alive.  I  did  him  no  injustice,  I  assure  you.  I  warned  him  again 
and  again  to  beware  of  ideas  that,  however  nice  they  may  seem  in 
books,  are  never  adopted  in  life,  except  within  the  walls  of  an  asylum. 
It  was  no  use.  He  would  see  for  himself.  He  calmly  dropped  me, 
without  a  word  of  explanation,  and  went  his  way.  When  people 
marry  an  idea,  they  cannot  wed  a  wife.  Otherwise  there  would  be 
incompatibility  of  temper,  etc.,  which  we  read  of  in  the  courts. 

Now,  Ralph  Outram  —  that's  my  dear  husband's  name  — 
Ralph  Outram,  C.B.,  late  of  the  Indian  Service,  has  no  ideas;  and 
he  is  an  archangel.  He  has  mounted  up,  step  by  step,  in  the  official 
and  social  ladder,  until  he  has  very  nearly  reached  the  top;  and 
thence  he  has  stooped  down  and  drawn  up  little  me!  The  height  is 
dizzy;  but  I  keep  my  head.  We  had  a  delightful  few  weeks  in 
London,  where  he  seemed  to  know  every  one,  even  the  proletariat, 
for  some  queer  people  called  at  our  hotel  to  see  him,  but  he  drew 
the  line  sharply  at  these.  We  had  quite  a  round  of  parties,  theatres, 
and  then  we  ran  down  to  a  quiet  seaside  place  called  Littlehampton, 


A  LETTER   FROM   IRELAND  203 

away  from  the  big,  noisy  world,  and  this  was  delectable.  Not  that 
I  dislike  the  big,  noisy  world;  oh,  no;  it  is  all  right,  especially  when 
one  can  look  the  thing  steadily  in  the  face.  But  for  one,  just  — 
well,  on  the  stage,  a  little  retirement  away  from  the  glare  is  some- 
times welcome.  But  Ralph  is  an  angel.  Ever  so  considerate  and 
kind  and  gentle;  he  has  a  strong  side,  too,  to  his  character.  He  says 
all  old  Indians  have.  They  must  have  from  their  intercourse  with 
natives.  One  little  instance  gave  me  a  shock,  but  filled  me  with  ad- 
miration for  such  a  great,  strong  protector.  One  of  the  proletariat 
(Ralph  always  calls  them  thus)  presumed  too  much,  and  became 
offensive.  Ralph  was  infinitely  tolerant.  Then  he  took  the  fellow, 
as  if  he  were  a  child,  in  his  arms,  and  dropped  him  into  the  area 
of  the  hotel.  It  was  the  evening  we  left  London  for  Littlehampton. 
And  now  one  word  about  my  little  presents:  They  were  many  — ■ 
I  send  you  the  Irish  Times  by  this  mail,  as  I  cannot  recount  them  in 
a  letter  —  and  beautiful.  Very  beautiful  and  very  costly.  One 
species  was  absent,  and  I  thanked  heaven.  The  vile,  the  detestably 
vulgar,  cheque.  It  is  one  of  the  most  dread  signs  of  modem  de- 
cadence. Ralph  cannot  see  it.  But  men  look  at  these  things  so 
differently;  and  I  shall  educate  him.  But  how  shall  I  thank  you, 
dearest  Edith,  for  your  Indian  present?  I  assure  you  its  beauty 
took  away  my  breath.  The  intense  polish  of  the  porphyry  vase  — 
it  is  porphyry,  is  it  not?  —  the  perfect  outline  and  finish,  and  the 
sudden  contrast  with  the  little  green,  coiled  cobra  at  the  bottom, 
gave  me  a  start  of  surprise,  which  soon  yielded  to  pleasure.  One 
vulgar  woman  declared  she  saw  a  fac-simile,  but  on  a  much  larger 
scale,  at  Chatsworth;  but  this  was  a  little  feminine  boasting.  No; 
there's  nothing  like  it  in  the  world.  So  every  one  says.  One  or  two 
affected  creatures  pretended,  while  admiring  the  exquisite  vasej  to 
have  received  a  sudden  shock  when  they  saw  the  beautiful  reptile. 
But  this  was  an  affectation.  And  some  tried  to  make  it  a  sign  of 
something  —  a  hint,  an  indication!  But  this,  of  course,  is  absurd. 
There  it  remains,  until  I  shall  create  for  it  a  special  place  in  my  new 
drawing-room.  Your  lovely  card  that  was  in  it  Ralph  picked  up 
and  kept  as  a  talisman,  he  said,  because  you  wrote  in  his  beloved 
Sanskrit.     He  won't  tell  me  what  it  is,  except  good  wishes  and  all 


204  LISHEEN 

forms  of  Oriental  and  fanciful  felicitations.  Some  day,  dearest, 
when  you  have  returned  home,  we  shall  talk  the  whole  thing  over, 
and  you  will  translate  the  beautiful  poetry  for  me. 

One  little  drawback  I  must  mention.  Poor  father,  in  his  failing 
health,  was  depressed  about  it  all.  He  couldn't  come  to  church, 
his  feet  are  so  swollen;  but  he  has  been  extremely  kind.  Somehow 
—  there!  I  must  tell  you  everything,  the  golds  and  the  grays  mix 
themselves  up  so  much  in  life  —  I  fear  he  set  his  heart  too  much 
on  my  marriage  with  Bob  Maxwell  —  the  young  fanatic,  who  has 
lost  his  head  about  Socialistic  theories,  etc.  —  and  I  know  he  was 
hoping  up  to  the  last  moment  to  have  heard  tidings  of  him.  Not 
that  it  would  matter  much.  I  had  long  ago  made  up  my  mind  that 
I  would  follow  my  star;  and  that  no  girlish  or  parental  caprice 
should  deter  me.  I  knew  I  had  a  destiny,  and  that  I  must  fulfil  it. 
But  poor  Pap  had  set  his  heart  on  Bob  —  his  father  was  an  old 
military  comrade  —  and  sometimes  he  looks  depressed  and  sad, 
and  murmurs:  "Poor  Bob!  Poor  Bob!"  Ralph  is  highly  amused; 
and  repeats:  "Poor  Bob!  Poor  Bob!"  until  I  have  to  laugh.  "Bob 
must  gang  his  own  gait,"  he  says;  "I  only  wish  I  had  my  ring  back." 
This  was  a  talismanic  ring,  given  Ralph  by  a  Brahmin,  or  a  Buddha, 
or  something,  out  there  in  India;  and  Ralph  parted  with  it  to  Mr. 
Maxwell,  as  a  kind  of  pledge  or  security  that  the  latter  would  do  his 
part  in  the  mad  undertaking.  The  ring  is  valuable,  I  believe,  and 
Ralph  says  he  must  have  it  back.  It  was  all  a  madcap  business 
transacted  in  a  Dublin  club;  but  no  one  took  Mr.  Maxwell  seriously 
until  he  asked  for  the  ring;  and  then  Ralph  couldn't  refuse  it.  But 
father  is  gloomy  over  the  matter.  Ralph  says  it  is  only  the  de- 
pression of  gout,  which  will  wear  away. 

There,  now,  I  think  I  have  told  you  everything.  Oh!  I  was 
near  forgetting.  'Tis  only  a  trifle;  but  you  are  so  good  as  to  be 
interested  in  every  little  thing  that  concerns  me.  The  poor  organist 
at  the  cathedral  did  grind  out  the  Wedding  March  from  Lohengrin; 
but  he  broke  down  suddenly.  Something  went  wrong  with  the 
hydraulic  engine,  or  something  else;  but  we  had  gone!  Otherwise, 
I  —  not  I,  but  some  of  my  dear  friends  —  would  say  it  was  an  evil 
omen.     I  hope  I  am  above  such  things;  but  some  people  are  so 


A  LETTER  FROM  IRELAND  205 

superstitious.  Anything  more?  No,  except  that  I  love  you  dearly, 
dearest  Edith,  and  dream  and  dream  and  dream  of  the  day  which 
shall  reunite  us.  Do  you  know,  I  sadly  need  a  friend;  and  I  have 
not  one.     With  which  sad  confession,  I  remain,  as  ever. 

Yours,  etc., 

Mabel  Outram. 

P.  S.  —  Ralph  tells  me  that  he  is  some  relative  to  a  great  Outram, 
who  distinguished  himself  in  India,  far  back  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, or  seventeenth,  I  quite  forget  which.  NHmportel  Isn't  Ralph, 
too,  great,  or  shall  be?  M.  O. 

When  the  httle  woman  to  whom  the  above  letter  was 
addressed,  received  it  on  a  dull  December  morning,  as 
the  old  year  closed  sorrowfully,  she  uttered  some  ejacula- 
tions that  were  quite  unintelligible  to  her  Hindoo  maid. 
And  all  day  she  went  around  sorrowful  and  mute,  so  that 
her  husband  asked  her  anxiously  at  dinner: 

"Is't  a  mutiny  at  Delhi,  or  an  approaching  earthquake, 
Edith?    I  never  saw  you  look  so  glum!" 

To  which  she  only  vouchsafed  the  dumb  answer  of 
putting  her  finger  on  her  lips,  and  waving  a  certain  letter 
in  the  air. 

Once  or  twice  he  heard  her  murmuring:  "Porphyry 
vase!  Cobra  coiled  at  the  bottom!  Sanskrit!"  But  he 
was  too  wise  to  ask  further  questions. 


CHAPTER  XX 

POOR    REYNARD 

Much  as  he  struggled  against  it,  Maxwell  became  every- 
day, after  Hamberton's  visit,  sunk  in  profound  melan- 
choly. They  had  brought  with  them  that  atmosphere  of 
refinement  and  wealth  to  which  he  had  been  now  for 
months  a  perfect  stranger;  and  this  had  awakened  remi- 
niscences of  the  past  life  of  gracious  ease  and  pleasure, 
which  was  his  natural  environment.  Nay;  it  must  be 
confessed  that,  after  this  visit,  Lisheen  took  on  an  aspect 
of  sordid  poverty  which  it  had  not  worn  before ;  and  — 
shall  it  be  said  ?  —  Debbie,  his  nurse,  his  handmaid, 
whom  he  had  come  to  regard  with  a  kind  of  brotherly 
affection,  and  whose  rustic  health  and  comeliness  he  had 
often  wondered  at,  suddenly  shrank  into  a  mere  country 
girl,  rough,  strong,  healthy,  but  sadly  wanting  in  the 
nameless  graces  that  surround  her  city-bred  sisters. 
The  whole  revolution  in  his  feelings  was  horrible  to  his 
conscience  and  his  honour;  and  he  struggled  manfully 
against  it.  But  it  would  come  back.  That  visit  had  shed 
a  light  on  the  floor  of  the  humble  cottage,  in  which  the 
old,  familiar  aspects  of  things  could  never  be  seen  again. 

And  then,  as  he  brooded  over  this  sudden  change  in  his 
feelings,  the  conviction  would  force  itself  upon  his  judg- 
ment that  his  mission  had  failed.  He  had  done  nothing. 
These  people  were  —  where  he  had  found  them  some 

206 


POOR  REYNARD  207 

months  ago.  He  was  so  far  from  having  lifted  up  the 
entire  population,  that  he  had  not  even  helped  on  a  single 
family.  All  that  he  had  dreamed  of  in  his  sunniest 
moments  had  been  dissipated.  He  had  gained  but  one 
thing  —  the  grace  of  illumination,  the  deep,  close  insight 
into  a  condition  of  things  that  seemed  to  him  desperate. 
Whatever  he  had  read  or  heard  of  the  sordid  and  humble 
condition  of  peasant  life  in  Ireland  paled  into  shadows 
before  the  reality;  and  "Good  God!"  he  cried,  "imagine 
some  quarter  of  a  million  of  people  living  under  these 
conditions.     The  very  stones  should  cry  out." 

In  marked  and  violent  contrast  with  his  own  failure 
was  the  reported  success  of  this  Englishman,  Hamberton. 
He  had  made  many  cautious  inquiries  of  Pierry  and  of 
the  priest  as  to  the  success  of  Hamberton's  work.  Yes; 
there  was  no  denying  it.  Hamberton  had  swept  away  a 
foul  village  of  rotten  cabins,  and  replaced  it  with  a  com- 
fortable and  picturesque  little  harnlet  of  neat,  red-tiled 
cottages;  Hamberton  had  burned  some  rotting  coracles 
and  placed  a  little  fleet  of  safe  and  shapely  vessels  in  the 
harbour.  Hamberton  had  put  up  a  little  fishing-pier; 
and  Hamberton  had  torn  open  the  bosom  of  a  hill  that 
had  sheltered  its  treasures  with  ignoble  secrecy  since  the 
creation  of  things,  and  with  the  appliances  of  science  had 
established  an  industry  that  was  repaying  him  and  yield- 
ing a  decent  livelihood  to  his  workmen. 

"What  wages  does  he  give?"  asked  Maxwell. 

"Fifteen  shillings  to  boys;  twenty  and  twenty- five 
shillings  to  men,"  said  Pierry,  as  if  he  were  relating  some- 
thing legendary  and  fabulous. 

Father  Cosgrove  confirmed  the  legend,  adding  that  he 


2o8  LISHEEN 

never  allowed  the  men  to  work  more  than  nine  hours  a 
day  —  seven  to  nine;  ten  to  one  p.m.;  two  to  six  p.m. 

"And  they  have  never  struck?" 

"No;  they  have  murmured,  but  no  more." 

"We  need  the  hand  of  the  Saxon  over  us  as  yet,"  said 
Maxwell,  in  confession  of  his  own  impotence. 

But  the  sense  of  failure  galled  him.  How  could  he 
ever  go  back  to  Dublin,  and  face  his  own  class  again? 
The  time  was  running  on;  and,  so  far,  he  could  see  no  way 
out  of  the  terrible  difficulty  wherein  he  had  deliberately 
placed  himself.  If  he  could  only  see  Hamberton,  confess 
his  identity  and  his  failure,  and  seek  for  light  and  leading! 
But  he  had  given  his  answer,  curt  and  clear  enough,  and 
how  now  could  he  break  with  these  people  who  had  been 
so  Jiumane  and  kind  ?  It  was  a  horrible  impasse,  this 
to  which  his  precipitancy  had  led  him;  and,  apparently, 
there  was  no  escape. 

A  few  days  before  Christmas  the  long-expected  letter 
came  from  a  daughter  in  Philadelphia.  There  were 
many  excuses  for  the  delay  —  sickness,  hospital  expenses 
eating  away  whatever  little  reserve  had  accumulated,  etc., 
but  it  contained  a  postal  order  for  ;;^5 ;  and  there  was  great 
jubilation  at  Lisheen. 

"I'll  take  it  in  to  the  agent,"  said  Owen  McAuliffe, 
"  and  get  a  clare  resate  from  him.  And  thin  we  can  bring 
down  the  cattle.  I  hope  it  will  be  a  long  time  before  we 
can  have  to  clare  the  manes  agin!" 

"Av  you  take  my  advice,"  said  Pierry,  "you'll  buy  a 
shuit  of  clothes  for  yerself,  and  a  dress  for  Debbie,  and 
let  us  have  one  dacent  Christmas  dinner;  and  pitch  that 
ruffian  to  the  divil." 


POOR  REYNARD  209 

"Betther  have  an  aisy  mind  an'  our  night's  rest,"  said 
Owen.  "Sure  I  have  not  wan  dacent  shleep  since  our 
cattle  wos  removed." 

So  the  old  man  took  in  the  five  pounds  to  Tralee, 
trudging  the  whole  thirteen  miles  thither  and  back,  and 
returning  with  a  sad  countenance. 

"He  wouldn't  take  thim,"  said  he  in  explanation. 
"He  demanded  two  pounds,  twelve  and  sixpence  more 
—  costs,  he  said  —  which  I  hadn't  to  give  him.  I'm 
afeard  he  manes  mischief." 

"I'm  dom'd  glad  he  didn't,"  said  Pierry.  "Did  you 
bring  us  anythin'  from  town  for  the  hohdays?" 

"Not  much,"  said  the  old  man,  dragging  out  of  a 
frayed  and  broken  bag  a  scraggy  piece  of  raw  beef 
and  a  bottle  of  whisky.  "'Twas  hard  to  brake  Mary's 
bit  o'  money;  but  I  thought  ye'd  be  expectin'  some- 
thin'." 

"The  ruffian  does  mane  mischief,"  said  Pierry.  "But 
we'll  be  ready  for  him ;  believe  you  me,  we'll  be  ready  for 
him." 

Christmas  Eve  came  around  —  that  blessed  season 
when  men  seem  to  forget  for  a  while  that  life  is  a  war- 
fare, and  to  remember  that  momentous  saying:  "A  new 
commandment  I  give  you  —  that  you  love  one  another, 
as  I  have  loved  you."  Alas!  It  fell  cold  and  bleak,  and 
darkened  by  shadows  of  coming  ills,  on  the  little  house- 
hold at  Lisheen. 

One  incident  touched  Maxwell  deeply,  revealing  as  it 
did  awful  depths  of  poverty  and  hardship.  Right  over 
the  fireplace  there  hung  two  pigs'  heads,  so  dry,  so  hard, 
so  blackened  by  eternal  smoke,  that  for  a  long  time  he 


2IO  LISHEEN 

had  supposed  them  to  be  wooden  ornaments  or  articles 
of  an  unknown  use.  That  they  could  be  used  for  human 
food  never  remotely  entered  his  mind,  until  this  momen- 
tous Christmas  Eve,  when  it  was  suggested  that,  perhaps, 
they  could  make  the  sacrifice,  and  use  one  of  these  as  a 
kind  of  condiment  to  the  ragged  beef  which  the  old  man 
had  brought  from  Tralee.  At  first  the  idea  was  scouted, 
the  old  woman  protesting  that  she  would  feel  lonesome- 
like,  if  she  missed  it  from  its  accustomed  place;  but 
probably  it  was  Maxwell's  presence  that  finally  decided 
that  the  bacon  should  be  used  with  the  beef. 

"Two  kinds  of  mate,"  said  the  old  man,  jokingly. 
"Begor,  we're  gettin'  on  in  the  world." 

And  yet  it  was  a  lonesome  Christmas  —  probably  the 
most  utterly  miserable  time  Maxwell  had  yet  spent. 

St.  Stephen's  day  dawned  bright,  crisp,  and  cheerful; 
and  the  two  young  men,  Pierry  and  Maxwell,  started  out 
for  a  long  bright  walk  up  the  mountain-side.  It  was 
about  eleven  o'clock,  and  they  had  mounted  a  declivity 
or  two,  when  suddenly  the  music  of  a  horn  and  the  bay- 
ing of  fox-hounds  broke  on  their  ears.  It  startled  them 
both  into  feelings  of  swift  and  eager  joy;  for  Maxwell 
was  a  keen  sportsman,  and  one  of  his  many  sorrows  at 
Lisheen  was  to  see  the  pheasant  and  the  partridge  whirring 
over  his  head  whilst  his  fingers  twitched  for  the  weapon 
that  was  not  there;  and  Pierry,  like  every  farmer's  son 
in  Ireland,  was  prepared  to  walk  twenty  miles  to  a  race  or 
a  meet.  They  both  wheeled  around,  and  saw,  deep  down 
in  the  level,  a  gay  assemblage  of  pink  and  black  coats, 
hats  shining  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  dappled  coats  of  the 
hounds.    They  swiftly  descended  and  came  out  on  the 


POOR  REYNARD  21 1 

road,  and  made  their  way  down  to  the  meet.  The  hunts- 
man was  consulting  some  farmers  or  labourers,  who  were 
pointing  hither  and  thither  as  if  to  demonstrate  the  places 
where  a  fox  was  likely  to  be  found.  When  the  two  young 
men  mingled  with  the  throng  they  just  heard  the  name 
"  Netterville "  addressed  by  one  of  the  gentlemen  present 
to  a  horseman,  who  sat  his  horse  without  grace,  and  was 
otherwise  distinguished  by  short  stature,  a  furtive  look, 
and  a  pair  of  bristling  moustaches  fiery  red,  and  sharply 
cut  at  the  ends. 

In  an  instant.  Pierce  McAuliffe  divined  that  this  was 
the  hated  agent,  who  threatened  ruin  to  their  humble 
household,  and  while  his  passions  flamed  up,  he  swiftly 
decided  that,  no  matter  what  the  consequences  might  be, 
he  would  shame  that  fellow  before  the  crowd. 

"Here,"  said  the  huntsman,  impatient  at  the  delay, 
whilst  the  fierce  dogs  ran  aimlessly  between  the  horses* 
legs,  "do  you  know  which  of  the  two  covers,  Lisheen  or 
Ahacross,  is  likely  to  hold  a  fox  to-day?" 

He  spoke  to  Pierry  and  Maxwell. 

"I  dunno,"  said  Pierry,  with  a  drawl;  "but  I  can  put 
ye  on  the  track  of  as  big  and  bould  a  fox  as  there  is  from 
here  to  Dingle  this  minit." 

"Where?  where?"  was  shouted,  as  the  horsemen 
bunched  together. 

"There,  jest  behind  ye,"  said  Pierry,  pointing  to  Netter- 
ville. 

There  was  a  titter;  and  to  escape,  Netterville,  under 
pretence  of  exercising  his  animal,  leaped  a  fence,  which, 
roughly  constructed  of  stones,  gave  way  beneath  the 
horse's  hoofs;  and  cantered  into  a  field,  where  the  stubble 


212  LISHEEN 

of  last  harvest  still  lay.  In  an  instant  Pierce  McAuliffe 
was  after  him. 

"Get  out,  get  out,  d you,"  the  boy  cried,  "get  out 

of  an  honest  man's  lands,  you  thundering  rogue." 

The  horseman  wheeled  round  at  the  challenge  and  con- 
fronted the  young  man,  who  was  now  in  a  dreadful  fury. 

"How  dare  you,  you,  sir,  speak  to  a  gentleman  in  that 
manner?    I'd  cut  your  hide  well  for  you." 

"Would    you?"    said    Pierry,    coming    over.     "You 

daren't  lay  a  wet  finger  on  me,  you  d d  coward,  and 

you  know  it.  Come,  out  o'  this!  None  of  your  exter- 
minators and  evicthors  will  hunt  over  my  lands  to-day." 

The  whole  group  had  now  gathered  at  the  fence  to 
watch  the  singular  episode.  And  Netterville,  pale  with 
rage  and  shame,  gnawed  his  moustache,  and  made  his 
horse  caracole  around. 

"Come,  come,"  said  Pierry;  "no  nonsense.  Out  of 
this  field,  or,  by  G ,  I'll  make  you." 

There  were  now  cries  of  anger  from  the  whole  hunt, 
and  many  queries: 

"Who's  this  fellow?  Who's  his  landlord?  We  must 
make  an  example  of  him,"  etc.,  etc. 

And  one  said  it  was  the  Maxwell  estate  —  which  made 
Bob  Maxwell  shudder;  and  others  said  it  was  the  Bernard 
property;  and  others  that  Netterville  knew  best,  and 
would  take  a  subtle  revenge.  He  was  still  pulling  his 
horse  round  and  round,  disliking  to  be  conquered,  and 
yet  conscious  that  he  was  breaking  the  law,  when  Pierry, 
stung  to  madness  by  the  remarks  of  the  genteel  crowd, 
struck  the  animal  smartly  on  the  haunches,  and  leaped 
aside  just  as  the  riding  whip  of  Netterville  swished  in  the 


POOR  REYNARD  213 

air  over  his  head.  Again  Pierry  struck,  and  again  Netter- 
ville  strove  to  lash  him  with  his  whip ;  but  the  boy  was  too 
agile,  and  lightly  leaped  back.  At  this  juncture  Max- 
well, having  shouted  to  the  hunstman:  "  Call  off  the  hounds 
if  you  don't  want  bloodshed!"  leaped  lightly  over  the 
fence,  and  approaching  Netterville  said,  with  the  accent 
and  manner  of  one  gentleman  addressing  another: 

"You  must  be  aware,  Mr.  Netterville,  that  this  young 
man  has  a  strict  legal  right  to  stop  hunting  over  his  fields, 
and  that  you  are  putting  yourself  in  the  power  of  the  law 
by  assaulting  him.     Come,  let  me  lead  your  horse!" 

"Who  the  devil — ?"  Netterville  was  saying,  when 
Maxwell  quietly  took  his  horse  by  the  head,  and,  as  the 
bridle  swung  loose  in  the  rider's  hands,  cantered  the 
animal  gently  across  the  stubble  and  led  him  through  the 
gap  on  to  the  road.  Then,  looking  up,  he  saw  Hugh 
Hamberton  and  Aliss  Moulton  watching  with  interest 
the  whole  proceeding.  The  former,  his  face  set  sternly 
and  his  lips  tightly  closed,  was  looking  vacantly  across 
the  field.  He  was  evidently  studying  this  strange  object- 
lesson  in  Irish  life,  and  apparently  his  sympathies  were 
with  the  boy  w^ho  had  merely  asserted  his  legal  rights. 
Claire  Moulton,  looking  very  trim  and  perfect  in  her 
riding  habit,  was  slightly  flushed,  and  that  strange  gleam 
came  into  her  eyes  as  in  every  moment  of  excitement. 
Maxwell  was  turning  away,  when  she  nodded  in  a  friendly 
manner  towards  him;  and  Hamberton,  waking  up,  said 
gravely : 

"You  did  that  well,  my  young  friend,  very  well  indeed. 
Come,  Claire!" 

They  galloped  after  the  hounds;  and  then,  for  the  first 


214  LISHEEN 

time,  was  Maxwell  aware  how  shabbily  he  was  dressed 
and  how  plebeian  a  picture  he  must  have  presented  to 
these  new-found  friends,  in  whom  he  had  begun  to  feel  a 
strange  interest.  He  looked  down  at  his  mud-soiled 
boots,  his  blue  trousers  stained  with  earth  and  badly 
frayed  at  the  extremities,  his  overcoat  gray  and  wrinkled 
and  greasy,  his  brown  hat  slightly  indented  and  badly 
discoloured,  and  he  grew  red  with  shame. 

"I'd  have  killed  him  if  you  hadn't  interfered,"  said  a 
voice.  It  was  Pierry's;  and  his  white  face  and  manner 
made  it  clear  that  he  meant  it.  "An'  it  was  a  chanst  that 
will  never  come  again.  They  couldn't  hang  me,  for  it 
was  he  broke  the  law." 

The  young  men  returned  home,  whilst  the  hunt  moved 
away  across  the  country  towards  Ahacross;  and  the  short, 
bright  winter  day  was  darkening  slowly  towards  evening, 
when  again  the  deep  baying  of  hounds,  and  the  sound  of 
the  horn,  drew  them  forth  from  the  fireside. 

This  time,  following  the  sounds,  they  went  up  towards 
the  hills,  Pierry  armed  with  a  thick  bludgeon,  and  as 
determined  as  in  the  morning  to  allow  not  one  of  that 
hated  band  to  cross  a  fence  of  his  fields.  When  they 
had  reached  the  heights,  they  saw  the  huntsmen  labouring 
heavily  across  some  fields  beneath  them,  and  looking 
further  up  they  saw  the  hounds  slowly  and  laboriously 
toiling  up  the  fields,  their  tongues  lolling  out  sideways 
and  their  dappled  skins  white  and  panting  with  exhaustion. 
A  little  in  advance,  and  making  his  way  apparently  towards 
a  farmer's  cottage  just  outside  the  bounds  of  Lisheen, 
was  poor  Reynard,  now  making  one  last  desperate  struggle 
for  life.     He  had  given  them  a  glorious  run  for  many  miles 


POOR  REYNARD  215 

across  the  country  from  the  cover  at  Ahacross;  and  now, 
as  he  stumbled  wearily  across  the  ploughed  field,  he  could 
not  be  distinguished,  except  by  practised  eyes,  from  the 
brown  earth,  so  discoloured  was  he  with  dirt  and  so  slow 
and  heavy  his  movements.  The  hounds  were  leaping 
the  fences  into  this  field,  as  he  approached  the  farm-yard; 
and  they  were  now  silent  from  fatigue,  and  the  certainty 
that  they  had  reached  their  quarry.  One  or  two  hunts- 
men, and  one  lady,  were  leading,  when  suddenly  the  fox 
disappeared,  as  if  the  ground  had  swallowed  him;  and 
the  hounds,  rushing  madly  here  and  there,  set  up  short 
yelps  of  disappointment. 

There  was  a  large  crowd  of  country  people  assembled 
to  watch  the  hunt;  and  they  were  as  deeply  interested  in 
the  sudden  and  unexpected  termination  of  the  day's  sport 
as  the  horsemen  who  had  ridden  across  country,  and  who 
now  came  up,  hot,  querulous,  and  angry.  No  one  could 
tell  what  had  become  of  Reynard,'  until  one  old  hound, 
whose  experience  atoned  for  his  loss  of  scent,  tracked  the 
animal  down  to  where  a  narrow  channel,  on  the  level  of 
the  field,  seemed  to  lead  through  the  ground  across  the 
road.  It  was  so  narrow  and  so  blocked  with  brambles, 
that  the  hound  could  only  put  his  nose  into  the  aperture, 
whence  he  immediately  withdrew  with  a  long  deep  howl 
of  disappointment.  In  a  short  time,  the  whole  hunt  had 
assembled,  horses  and  men  panting  and  foam- flecked 
with  the  fierce  exertion;  but  after  a  pause  of  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  or  so,  the  huntsman  decided  that  Reynard  had 
escaped,  and  he  drew  off  his  hounds,  and  faced  homewards. 
With  the  terrible  instinct  for  destruction  which  still 
lingers  in  human  hearts,  the  hunt,  ladies  and  gentlemen 


21 6  LISHEEN 

alike,  decided  that  it  would  be  worth  while  to  wait  and 
unearth  the  fox;  and  they  asked  a  few  peasant  lads  present 
if  there  were  no  means  of  driving  Reynard  from  his  re- 
treat. Maxwell,  who  with  Pierry  was  standing  by,  could 
not  help  saying,  as  he  forgot  for  the  moment  his  assumed 
character : 

"Let  the  brute  alone!  He  has  given  you  a  good  day's 
sport,  and  will  give  another.  Don't  you  see  the  hounds 
are  gone!" 

There  were  some  profane  answers  to  this  burst  of 
indignation,  some  supercilious  queries:  "Who  is  this 
fellow?"  etc.,  etc.,  which  were  interrupted  when  a  young 
peasant  lad  put  in  a  fox  terrier  in  the  channel,  and  the 
hounds  and  huntsman  were  whistled  after  to  return.  In 
a  few  minutes  the  poor  hunted  brute  emerged  fr6m  the 
channel  at  the  other  side,  and  wearily  crossed  a  potato 
patch  near  the  farmer's  outhouses.  There  was  a  shout 
of  triumph  from  the  horsemen,  the  huntsman  rode  merrily 
up,  the  hounds  gave  tongue  once  more,  and  the  hunted 
animal  ran  wearily  backward  and  forward  on  a  ditch 
that  bounded  the  farmer's  haggart.  When  the  hounds 
plunged  down  into  the  potato  garden  the  fox,  with  one 
last  effort  for  life,  leaped  up  and  struggled  wildly  to  get 
a  foothold  on  the  thatch  of  the  barn.  He  succeeded,  and 
for  the  next  few  minutes  he  ran  across  the  ridge  of  the 
barn,  whilst  the  hounds  came  beneath,  yelping  at  their 
victim  and  tossing  their  tails  wildly.  The  whole  hunt 
stood  still,  watching  the  end.  Maxwell  was  furious. 
It  was  cold-blooded  cruelty,  without  an  atom  of  sport. 
He  told  the  huntsman  so;  he  told  the  horsemen  so;  he  told 
the   ladies   so.    They   looked   on   and   laughed     After 


POOR  REYNARD  217 

about  ten  minutes'  vain  endeavour  to  tire  out  or  elude  his 
foes,  it  was  clear  the  fox's  strength  was  failing.  There 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait.  Then  one  fierce  dog 
leaped  up  and  pursued  the  exhausted  animal.  Without 
a  cry,  or  moan,  the  poor  brute  rolled  down  the  thatch, 
and  fell  into  the  jaws  of  twenty  hounds.  In  a  few  seconds 
he  was  torn  limb  from  limb,  and  nothing  remained  but  a 
few  scraps  of  skin  and  bone.  The  hunstman  deftly  saved 
the  brush,  and  cantering  over  to  where  Claire  Moulton 
was  holding  in  her  horse,  he  gallantly  offered  it  to  her. 
But  she  put  it  aside  with  a  gesture  of  disgust;  and  Max- 
well, again  forgetting  himself,  could  not  help  saying: 

"Quite  right,  Miss  Moulton!  It  was  the  most  brutal 
and  unsportsmanlike  act  I  ever  saw!" 

Which  remark  again  excited  the  curiosity  of  the  crowd, 
who  could  not  reconcile  Maxwell's  manner  with  his  dress 
and  company.  And  many  were  the  conjectures  that  were 
made,  as  the  hunt  broke  up  and  the  horsemen  filed  slowly 
homewards  in  the  deepening  twilight.  And  Pierry  too 
was  lost  in  thought  as  he  trudged  slowly  down  the  hill  to 
Lisheen. 

"Perhaps,  after  all,"  he  whispered  to  himself,  "Debbie 
may  be  right.  No  wan  but  wan  of  theirsel's  would  spake 
up  to  thim  that  way.  But  what,  then,  can  he  be  doin' 
here?" 


CHAPTER  XXI 


AT   BRANDON  HALL 


Like  many  another  poor  mortal,  Ned  Galwey,  trusting 
too  much  to  his  httle  learning,  and  refusing  to  be  taught 
by  experience,  fell  and  fell  sadly.  The  conviction  forced 
itself  on  his  imagination  until  it  became  a  monomania, 
that  gold  was  here,  here  in  their  own  townland,  where 
they  were  bom  and  reared,  and  where  now  this  black 
stranger  coolly  comes  in  and,  by  aid  of  superior  knowledge, 
which  was  uncanny  and  criminal,  was  pihng  up  an  enor- 
mous fortune  secretly  and  covertly  from  the  world.  The 
thought  was  maddening.  Ned  had  read  all  about  Nevada 
and  the  mines  of  Kimberley,  and  the  rivers  rolling  down 
their  golden  sand  in  far  India.  And  here,  clearly  and 
unmistakably,  was  this  prospector,  luckily  for  himself, 
digging  and  mining  and  pocketing  the  precious  metal  that 
had  lain  so  long  within  a  few  feet  of  their  own  labours. 

The  nights  were  cold;  Ned  Galwey  heeded  it  not,  but 
estabhshed  a  kind  of  detective  system  of  his  own,  by 
which,  sooner  or  later,  he  sought  to  catch  Hamberton,  as 
the  wise  men  of  old  caught  the  Leprechaun  and  compelled 
him  to  surrender  his  ill-gotten  wealth.  Night  after  night 
he  wandered  around  the  lonely  hills  that  frowned  down 
on  the  marble  quarries,  expecting  to  see  the  gUnt  of  the 
lantern  that  would  mark  the  EngHshman  at  work;  but  he 
saw  nothing,  except,  now  and  again,  a  hare  that  he  might 

218    . 


AT   BRANDON   HALL  219 

start  from  her  form,  or  some  wild  thing  creeping  in  the 
darkness  from  covert  to  covert.  The  good  wife  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  Ned's  head  was  "turned";  and  she 
communicated  her  fears  to  others;  until  at  length  the 
report  reached  Hamberton  of  Ned's  nocturnal  vigils,  and 
he  swore  he  would  teach  the  fellow  a  lesson,  and  then 
dismiss  him  back  to  his  farm  and  his  fishing. 

In  one  of  the  Hmestone  caves  in  his  Cj[uarries  he  had  a 
tall  figure  dressed  completely  in  white,  the  head  covered 
except  to  reveal  a  grinning  skull.  He  placed  a  lantern  to 
hang  as  it  were  from  the  hands  of  the  dead,  and  secreted 
two  confidential  men  in  the  cave  on  a  certain  very  dark 
night  in  January.  Then,  when  his  whole  household  were 
stilled  in  sleep,  he  came  out  at  midnight,  and  slowly  and 
cautiously  entered  the  rough  path  to  his  quarries.  As  he 
went  along,  he  threw  the  powerful  light  of  an  acetylene 
lamp  before  him;  and  he  often  paused  and  looked  down, 
and  picked  up  worthless  pebbles  and  threw  them  away. 
He  was  quite  conscious  that  his  every  movement  was 
watched  from  above,  and  he  strove  by  every  gesture  and 
pause  to  increase  Ned  Galwey's  suspicions.  At  last  he 
put  out  the  hght  and  entered  the  cave,  and  instantly  Ned 
descended  and  followed  him. 

"I  have  him  at  lasht,"  said  Ned.  "An'  he's  the  divil 
if  he  escapes  me  now.  Here  he  has  his  gold  heaped  up 
in  bags  or  boxes,  I  suppose.  I  wondher  will  I  be  able 
for  him!" 

Ned's  idea  was  to  come  behind  Hamberton,  when  the 
latter  was  counting  his  treasures,  and  seize  him  and  them, 
using  only  the  violence  that  might  be  necessary  to  carry 
out  his  project.     He  calculated  that  Hamberton  might  not 


220  LISHEEN 

know  him  in  the  darkness;  or  that,  if  he  were  detected,  it 
would  be  Hambcrton's  interest,  as  well  as  his  own,  to  keep 
the  matter  secret.  For  he  had  some  dim  idea  that  Ham- 
bcrton's supposed  mining  was  not  strictly  legal;  and  that 
the  government  or  the  landlord  had  claims  on  mines  and 
minerals. 

He  stumbled  over  broken  hmestone  and  marble,  as  he 
descended  from  his  post  of  observation;  and,  once  or 
twice,  when  he  caused  some  larger  boulder  to  tumble 
down  the  decUvity,  with  a  noise  as  he  imagined  Hke 
thunder,  his  guilty  conscience  made  him  pause  in  terror. 
As  he  proceeded  further,  his  terror  became  greater,  until 
the  bark  of  a  sleepless  dog,  or  even  the  wash  of  the  sea, 
made  him  tremble.  He  would  have  turned  back,  but 
that  the  demon  of  cupidity  was  too  strong  within  him, 
and  the  gUnt  of  the  imaginary  gold  bhnded  his  eyes  to 
guilt  and  danger. 

At  length,  after  many  pauses,  he  reached  the  opening 
of  the  cave.  There  was  the  dim  reflection  of  some  hght 
cast  from  behind  a  mighty  shelf  of  rock  that  screened  the 
entrance  of  the  cavern,  and  Ned  thought:  "He's  now  at 
his  work,  the  divil;  and  won't  he  be  surprised?" 

Cautiously  he  crept  fonA^ard,  and  then,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  he  flew  swiftly  around  the  boulder,  and  came  face 
to  face,  not  with  Hamberton,  but  with  the  awful  sheeted, 
silent  figure,  with  the  skull  grinning  from  beneath  the 
white  hood.  A  lantern  hung  down  before  the  ghost  and 
ht  the  walls  of  the  cave. 

For  an  instant  Ned  Galwey  was  paralyzed  with  terror, 
and  could  only  stare.  There  was  a  sudden  bending  for- 
ward of  the  awful  figure,  and  then  the  unhappy  fellow, 


AT   BRANDON   HALL  221 

with  an  awful  shriek,  turned  to  flee.  As  he  did  the  figure 
fell  on  him  and  threw  him  to  the  earth.  The  lantern  was 
extinguished,  and  in  the  darkness  and  dread  and  cold 
terror,  as  of  death,  his  consciousness  staggered  and  fled. 

In  the  gray  dawn  of  the  morning,  when  the  men  assem- 
bled for  work  in  the  quarries,  they  thought  they  heard 
stifled  moans  proceeding  from  a  certain  cave,  where 
sometimes  they  left  their  picks  and  hammers  after  the 
day's  work.  After  some  hesitation,  for  the  Irish  peasant 
is  rather  fearful  of  "finding  somethin'"  that  would  impH- 
cate  him  with  the  law,  they  entered  the  cave  and  saw  but 
a  white  sheet,  from  beneath  which  the  moans  came,  sad 
and  fitful  enough,  a  broken  lantern,  and  a  skull.  They 
raised  the  sheet  and  discovered  the  prostrate  figure  of 
Ned  Galwey,  more  dead  than  aUve.  To  every  query, 
there  was  but  one  feeble  answer: 

"Oh!  the  ghosht!  the  ghosht!" 

"What  the  divil  brought  you  here,  Ned,  man  ahve?" 

"Oh!  the  ghosht!  the  ghosht!" 

"How  long  are  you  here?" 

"Oh!  the  ghosht!  the  ghosht!" 

"Rouse  up,  man  ahve,  and  tell  us  what  happened." 

"Oh!  the  ghosht!  the  ghosht!" 

"Thunder  and  turf,  man!  What  ghosht?  What  did 
you  see?" 

"Oh!  the  ghosht!  the  ghosht!" 

"This  bangs  Banagher.  This  must  be  the  banshee  that 
we  hard  last  night  late.  But  what  brought  Ned  Galwey 
here  in  the  middle  of  the  night?" 

"Oh!  the  ghosht!  the  ghosht!" 

They  took  him  home  and  told  his  wife  the  circumstances. 


222  LISHEEN 

Even  to  her  queries  he  had  but  one  answer:  "The  ghosht! 
the  ghosht!"  And  for  many  years  after,  whenever  Ned 
was  coming  home  from  a  fair  or  market,  and  was  "unco 
fuV'  it  was  a  usual  sight  to  behold  him  swaying  to  and 
fro  within  the  prison  of  his  crate  and  cart,  and  to  hear 
him  cry  with  outstretched  hands:  "Oh!  the  ghosht!  the 
ghosht!"  At  last  he  became  known  all  around  the  coun- 
tryside as  "The  Haunted  Man." 

Hamberton,  however,  was  not  disposed  to  let  him  off  so 
easily.  He  had  a  good  deal  of  contempt  for  such  a  char- 
acter; and  he  needed  an  example  to  prove  that  the  popular 
fancy  about  hidden  treasure  was  ill-founded,  and  also  to 
show  the  discontented  moiety  of  his  labourers  that  he  was 
not  a  man  to  be  trifled  with. 

"When  time  and  thought  brought  back  something  like 
reason  to  Ned  Galwey,  Hamberton  calmly  but  firmly  de- 
manded an  authentic  account  of  the  event  that  was  now 
the  talk  of  two  parishes.  The  one  point  that  he  desired 
particularly  to  clear  up  was,  what  brought  Ned  to  the 
cave  that  winter  night.  He  knew  right  well  what  it  was; 
but  he  demanded  the  admission  from  Ned's  own  lips. 
This  was  no  easy  task.  Ned  had  several  theories  about 
his  presence  in  the  cave,  and  these  varied  as  their  proba- 
bihties.  He  said  he  was  bewitched;  that  he  was  a  som- 
nambulist; that  he  had  dreamt  three  times  running  that 
there  was  a  "crook  of  goold"  hidden  in  the  cave,  and  that 
it  was  whilst  dreaming  he  sought  it.  Finally,  he  declared 
that  it  was  "thim  moonlighters,  who  wor  agin  the  govern- 
ment an'  every  dacent,  hard-working  man,  and  who  would 
think  no  more  of  shooting  an  EngUshman  than  of  shooting 
a  rabbit,  who  took  him  by  force  out  of  his  warm  bed  by 


AT   BRANDON   HALL 


223 


night,  and  thranshported  him  to  the  cave,  where  they  held 
their  nocturnal  and  rebellious  meetings." 

Hamberton  took  each  story  as  it  came  from  Ned's  hps, 
and  told  it  to  the  men;  and  each  new  invention  was  a 
source  of  intense  amusement  day  by  day ;  whilst  Hamberton 
saw  that  every  additional  falsehood  was  wearing  softly 
away  every  trace  of  discontent  and  every  lingering  idea 
that  he  was  secretly  amassing  wealth.  Then,  one  day,  he 
determined  to  call  them  together  and  talk  to  them  of  their 
infideUty  and  perfidy.  But  he  abandoned  the  idea  under 
the  influence  of  some  cynical  humour. 

'"Tis  all  the  same,"  he  argued,  "and  will  be  so  to  the 
end  of  time.  All  men  are  liars.  I  must  tolerate  them 
until  I  can  leave  them  forever." 

This  was  the  idea  —  not  passion,  nor  fear,  nor  mono- 
mania —  but  the  calm,  well-formed  idea  that  was  haunting 
the  mind  of  this  singular  man.  The  idea  of  getting  out 
of  life,  when  he  had  accomplished  certain  things,  as  softly 
and  as  voluptuously  as  possible.  The  old  Roman  mode 
of  life,  sybaritic,  cynical,  philosophical,  appealed  strongly 
to  him.  And  the  Roman  method  of  leaving  Ufe  appealed  to 
him  still  more  strongly.  He  had  no  idea  of  drifting  on 
to  old  age,  a  prey  to  every  wretched  infirmity,  until  he 
became  an  object  of  contempt  even  to  those  few  who  loved 
him.  He  had  seen  old  age  and  shuddered  at  it  —  its 
imbecility,  its  multiform  diseases,  its  impotence;  and  he 
determined  that  when  certain  things  had  been  done  he 
would  leave  of  his  own  free  will  this  most  disastrous 
world.  Once  or  twice  he  had  hinted  this  to  Father  Cos- 
grove  in  their  occasional  conferences  on  the  immortality  of 
the  soul  and  the  future  Hfe.     Then,  he  had  broadly  stated 


224  LISHEEN 

his  intention  to  the  horrified  priest  to  leave  this  wretched 
hfe  as  soon  as  he  had  placed  Claire  Moulton  under  the 
protection  of  some  man,  in  whose  honour  he  could  confide. 
And  he  added,  in  mitigation  of  the  horror  he  had  raised  in 
the  mind  of  the  simple  priest: 

"You  see  it  is  a  far-off  event,  Father.  I  think  the  con- 
dition is  hardly  realizable  at  all;  or,  at  least,  only  so  after 
the  lapse  of  many  years.  But  when  you  meet  that  Sir 
Galahad,  you  will  tell  me,  will  you  not?" 

"You  must  allow  Miss  Moulton  some  choice,"  the  priest 
answered.  "  From  the  little  I  know  of  them,  young  ladies' 
fancies  cannot  be  forced,  cannot  be  forced." 

"Quite  so.  Quite  so.  I  shall  allow  Claire  the  most 
absolute  freedom.  But  this  puts  my  design  further  back. 
Because,  you  know,  like  all  girls,  she  is  sure  to  marry  a 
knave  or  a  fool." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  the  priest.  "But  I  pray 
it  may  be  so;  or  that  God  will  change  your  heart.  And 
he  will;  he  will.  I  am  but  a  poor  prophet;  but  I  foresee 
the  day  when  Miss  Moulton  will  be  the  happy  mistress  of 
Brandon  Hall,  and  you  her  honoured  and  respected  friend 
and  father." 

"Oh,  man  of  mighty  faith,  how  Httle  dost  thou  know! 
How  little  dost  thou  know!"  said  Hamberton. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A  TERRIBLE   DISCOVERY 

The  discovery  that  was  now  to  throw  dread  and  con- 
sternation, at  least  amongst  some  of  the  family  at  Lisheen, 
was  made  by  Pierry,  and  communicated  with  great  caution 
to  Debbie  alone.  Maxwell's  action  and  demeanour  in  the 
j&eld  before  the  hunt  began,  and  afterwards  at  Reynard's 
death,  gave,  as  we  have  seen,  some  food  for  reflection  to 
Pierry  McAuHffe.  No  peasant,  no  matter  how  brave  and 
independent,  would  act  as  Maxwell  had  done;  and  surely 
no  deserter,  hiding  from  the  police,  would  tempt  Provi- 
dence in  that  way,  Pierry,  loth  enough  to  act  the  spy, 
was  yet  so  disquieted  about  their  visitor,  that  he  deter- 
mined to  set  a  watch  on  his  movements;  and,  although 
these  were  manifest  and  unconcealed,  he  thought  he  should 
catch  Maxwell  in  some  moment  when  he  was  off  his 
guard,  and  in  which  he  might  reveal  something  that  would 
betray  his  identity. 

Strange  to  say,  the  thought  of  the  agent,  Netterville,  of 
his  anger  at  the  insult  offered  him  by  Pierry  before  the 
entire  hunt,  and  of  the  possible  revenge  he  might  take, 
did  not  occupy  the  mind  of  the  young  peasant  these  winter 
days  so  much  as  the  question:  Who  was  their  unknown 
guest,  whence  had  he  come,  and  what  was  his  object  in 
selecting  Lisheen,  above  all  other  places,  for  a  retreat  ? 

He  questioned  his  father  closely  about  the  chance  of 
IS  225 


226  LISHEEN 

their  having  rich  relatives  in  England  or  America,  some 
far-out  cousins,  who  might,  after  the  lapse  of  many  years, 
be  anxious  to  resume  the  rights  of  family  relations,  and 
perhaps  bring  back  some  httle  resources  to  help  their 
meagre  means.  The  good  father  shook  his  head.  There 
were,  of  course,  relatives  in  America;  but  all  were  doing 
for  themselves,  and  not  hkely  to  be  troubled  with  home 
emergencies.  There  were  none,  so  far  as  he  knew,  in 
England.  He  bade  Pierry  abandon  all  hope  of  succour 
from  abroad.  He  thought  that  this  was  Pieriy's  idea. 
The  latter  then  cast  about  for  some  other  solution  of  the 
problem,  but  in  vain.  He  consulted  Debbie  more  than 
once.  She  persisted  in  maintaining  that  Maxwell  was  a 
gentleman;  and  she  instanced  his  demeanour  towards 
Miss  Moulton  when  they  had  visited  Lisheen.  She  spoke 
rather  scornfully  of  "that  thing,"  as  she  called  Miss 
Moulton,  and  in  great  laudation  of  Maxwell's  attitude 
towards  people  who  should  have  minded  their  own 
business. 

Clearly,  then,  Maxwell  was  a  gentleman  —  but  in  dis- 
guise, and  hiding  away  in  this  remote  place  for  some 
obscure  and  suspicious  cause.  He  cast  up  every  possible 
cause  in  his  mind  —  domestic  trouble,  reduced  means, 
gambling,  even  Debbie's  attractions;  but  rejected  them 
all.     The  revelation  then  burst  unexpectedly  upon  him. 

Every  soft  moonhght  night  in  the  early  spring  he 
noticed  that  Maxwell,  after  supper,  used  to  throw  on  a 
heavy  frieze  coat,  and,  under  pretence  of  having  a  quiet 
smoke,  was  in  the  habit  of  going  to  a  lonely  plantation  or 
screen  of  firs  higher  up  on  the  hill,  but  not  very  far  from 
the  cottage.    One  night,  when  a  heavy  fog  rose  up  from  the 


A  TERRIBLE   DISCOVERY 


227 


valleys  beneath  and  almost  hid  ever}'thlng,  Pierry,  under 
its  friendly  cover,  followed  Maxwell  up  along  the  hill, 
and  hid  in  ambush  under  a  wet  and  dripping  hawthorn 
hedge,  on  which  a  few  withered  leaves  and  a  few  red 
berries  were  still  lingering.  The  plantation,  composed  of 
heavy  timber  with  light  young  fir-trees  springing  up  be- 
tween, looked  ghostly  enough  in  the  pale  moonhght,  that 
was  now  struggling  with  the  heavy  fog;  and  through  a 
path  cut  between  the  tender  young  saplings,  on  which  the 
beads  of  vapour  were  glistening,  Maxwell  was  walking  to 
and  fro,  apparently  buried  in  deep  thought.  Suddenly, 
and  with  a  kind  of  stifled  cry,  he  stopped;  and,  turning 
around,  he  appeared  to  be  engaged  in  angry  altercation 
with  some  unseen  person.  His  voice  at  first  was  pleading 
and  pitiful,  then  it  rose  shrill  and  piercing,  as  if  arguing 
against  the  suggestion  of  some  terrible  deed.  Then  it 
seemed  to  die  away,  as  if  remonstrance  were  unavailing, 
and  Pierry  heard  him  mutter:  "When  we  have  marked 
with  blood  these  sleepy  two,"  as  Maxwell  turned  away 
into  the  recesses  of  the  plantation  again. 

The  boy  was  badly  frightened ;  but  he  had  nerv^e  enough 
to  wait  and  see  what  further  developments  would  take 
place. 

After  a  pause  Maxwell  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the 
firs,  and  stood  in  the  open  moonlit  space  again. 

Suddenly  he  turned,  as  if  taken  red-handed  in  his  guilt, 
and  shouted: 

"Who's  there?    What,  ho!" 

Pierry,  now  believing  that  he  was  discovered  by  this 
madman  or  murderer,  was  about  to  run,  when  Maxwell, 
after  a  pause,  cried: 


228  LISHEEN 

"What  hands  are  here?  ha!  they  pluck  out  my  eyes." 

And  then,  as  he  rubbed  his  hands  violently  together, 
Pierry  heard  him  ask  if  all  the  waters  in  the  ocean  could 
wash  the  filthy  blood  from  his  hands. 

He  needed  no  more ;  but  crept  along  the  hawthorn  hedge 
and,  once  again  wrapped  in  the  fog,  sped  down  with 
throbbing  heart  and  bursting  eyes  towards  home.  But  as 
it  would  never  do  to  reveal  prematurely  all  things  before 
they  were  ripe,  and  as  Pierry,  consummate  actor  as  he  was, 
was  now  determined  to  see  other  and  more  tangible  proofs 
of  this  man's  guilt,  he  went  into  the  cowhouse,  and  re- 
mained there  until  he  saw  Maxwell,  half  an  hour  later, 
lift  the  latch  of  the  cottage  door  and  go  in.  Then  Pierry, 
with  a  half-lighted  pipe  in  his  hand,  also  entered,  and 
sat  down  as  calm  as  he  could  by  the  smouldering  fire. 

"A  cowld  night  outside?"  said  the  old  man. 

*"Tis  cold,"  said  Maxwell,  so  calmly  that  Pierry  was 
shocked  by  the  contrast  of  the  man's  demeanour  with 
what  he  had  witnessed  an  hour  ago.  "There  is  a  thick 
fog  and  a  heavy  dew  is  falling." 

"I  fear  the  ground  is  too  wet  to  turn  up  a-yet?"  said 
the  old  man,  interrogatively. 

"Yes,"  said  Maxwell.  "It  would  be  heavy  under  the 
plough  just  now." 

"I  suppose  we  musht  wait,  though  the  spring  is  running 
on,"  said  the  old  man. 

And  Maxwell  pursued  the  conversation  as  calmly  as  if 
nothing  was  on  his  mind  more  terrible  than  the  fencing 
of  a  ditch  or  the  planting  of  a  ridge  of  potatoes. 

"He's  the  divil's  own  play-acthor  intirely,"  Pierry 
thought,  as  he  beckoned  Debbie  to  follow  him. 


A  TERRIBLE   DISCOVERY  229 

Not  till  they  had  gone  around  the  house,  and  were  safely 
ensconced  in  the  cow-byre  did  Pierry  open  his  mind  to  the 
wondering  sister. 

"I've  found  out  all,"  he  whispered  at  first. 

"All  what?"  said  Debbie. 

"All  about  the  houchal  inside,"  said  Pierry. 

Then  Debbie's  curiosity,  and  more  than  curiosity,  was 
aroused. 

"No  wondher  he  was  hidin',"  said  Pierry.  "If  I 
had  what  he  has  on  my  mind  I'd  drownd  meself  in 
the  say." 

"Wha  —  what  is  it?"  said  Debbie,  now  thoroughly 
terrified,  as  she  looked  out  into  the  square  of  moonlight 
before  the  door. 

"You'd  never  guess,"  said  Pierry. 

"No;  what  in  the  Name  of  God  is  it?"  said  Debbie. 
"Is  it  anything  very  bad  intirely?" 

"Couldn't  be  worse,"  said  Pierr}-.  "He  has  blood  on 
his  sowl,  as  sure  as  we're  talkin'  here  to-night.  He  has 
done  away  wid  somebody." 

"Great  God  in  Heaven  to-night!"  almost  shrieked  the 
girl,  "  what  did  we  do  to  punish  us  in  this  way  ?  To  think 
of  having  a  murderer  in  the  house,  an'  undher  our  roof! 
But  are  you  sure,  Pierry?"  she  asked,  as  the  gleam  of  an 
old  affection  shone  up  under  such  a  dark  cloud  of  gloom. 
"How  do  you  know?    How  did  you  find  it  out?" 

"Aisy  enough,"  said  Pierr}^  "I  had  it  from  his  owti 
lips;  an'  if  you  can  hould  yer  tongue  for  wan  twenty-four 
hours,  you  can  hear  it,  too,  or  I'm  mistaken."  Then  he 
told  her  all. 

They  then  decided  to  hold  a  deep,  unbroken  silence 


230 


LISHEEN 


about  the  matter,  until  Debbie  could  verify  her  brother's 
suspicions.  And  then  they  would  consult  further  on  the 
matter. 

The  next  night  was  equally  favourable  for  observation; 
and  when  Maxwell,  again  donning  the  heavy  frieze  coat, 
strolled  out  into  the  moonhght,  Pierry  soon  followed. 
But  he  immediately  returned,  and  said  aloud: 

"I'm  thinkin',  Debbie,  that  some  wan  is  paying  a  polite 

visit  to  your  fowl.     At  laste,  they're  makin'  the  h of 

a  row  outside." 

"Wisha,  bad  luck  to  that  fox!"  said  Debbie,  hustling 
around  and  assuming  a  heavy  shawl.  "  There's  the  second 
visit  this  year;  and  not  a  pinny  compinsation  from  thim 
huntsmin." 

Brother  and  sister  separated  in  the  yard ;  and  made  their 
way,  by  different  routes,  towards  the  plantation,  the 
theatre  of  Maxwell's  appalling  confessions.  But  they  met 
and  crouched  beneath  the  hawthorn  where  Pierry  was 
ambushed  the  night  before.  The  night  was  cold  and  the 
grass  was  wet;  but  they  heeded  not  these  things  under 
the  spell  of  the  night's  adventures. 

"Now,  Debbie,"  whispered  Pierry,  "for  your  sowl's 
sake,  don't  let  a  screech  out  o'  you,  nor  wan  worrd,  no 
matther  what  you  see,  or  you'll  spile  all." 

"I'll  try,"  said  Debbie  with  chattering  teeth  and  shiv- 
ering all  over,  rather  from  fright  than  cold. 

Again  they  had  not  long  to  wait.  For  again  Maxwell, 
his  figure  looming  up  larger  in  the  mist,  emerged  from 
the  plantation  where  the  trees  were  thickest,  and  stood  in 
the  glade,  where  the  young  saplings  could  not  conceal 
him.     After  pausing  some  time,  and  making  some  wild 


A   TERRIBLE    DISCOVERY  231 

gesticulations,  he  struck  his  forehead  violently  with  his 
right  hand  and  strode  back  into  the  shadows. 

"Did  you  see  that?"  whispered  Pierry. 

"I  did,"  chattered  Debbie.  "God  help  us!  he  has 
something  weighty  on  his  sowl." 

"Weighty  enough,"  answered  Pierry.  "Wondher  we 
never  shuspected  anything.  Whisht!  here  he  comes 
again!" 

Again,  with  slow  and  solemn  tread,  Maxwell  strode  out 
into  the  moonlight ;  and  after  a  pause,  and  looking  around 
solenmly  at  the  heavens,  he  suddenly  gave  a  violent  start, 
as  if  he  had  seen  an  apparition,  and  shouted  at  it  to 
depart:  "Avaunt!  and  quit  my  sight!  Thou  canst  not 
say  I  did  it;  never  shake  thy  gor}^  locks  at  me!" 

These  were  the  appalling  cries  that  came  to  the  fright- 
ened watchers. 

"He  sees  something,"  whispered  Debbie,  half  dead  with 
terror.     "Can  you  see  anything,  Pierry?" 

"I  do,"  said  Pierry.  "There's  somethin'  white  between 
the  trees." 

"Is  it  a  man  or  a  woman?"  said  Debbie. 

"'Tis  nayther.  'Tis  a  sperrit,"  whispered  Pierry. 
"'Tis  the  thing  he  kilt." 

"God  save  us!"  said  Debbie,  making  the  sign  of  the 
cross.     "Could  we  get  home  without  his  seein'  us?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Pieriy.     "Listen!  he's  at  it  agin!" 

Maxwell  was  still  apparently  arguing  with  the  ghost, 
when  suddenly  the  latter  must  have  disappeared;  for  he 
turned  around,  and  pulled  up  his  coat-collar  and 
muttered : 

"Why,  so;  being  gone,  I  am  a  man  again." 


232  $  LISHEEN 

And  muttering:  "I  will  have  blood;  they  say,  blood 
will  have  blood,"  he  went  back  into  the  shades  again. 

"Come  home,  in  God's  Name!"  said  Debbie  to  her 
brother. 

"No,  no,"  said  Pierry.  " We  must  see  it  out  now.  We 
won't  get  a  chance  agin!" 

"But  maybe  he's  gone  home,"  said  Debbie. 

"No,"  said  Pieny.  "You'll  see  him  hghtin'  his  pipe 
first." 

"He's  the  cool  divil  out  an'  out,"  said  Debbie.  "To 
think  of  shmokin'  after  what  he's  seen!  But  I  wondher 
who  was  it?    Was  it  a  man  or  a  'uman?" 

"Wait,  and  maybe  he'll  let  on!"  said  Pierry. 

This  time  the  interval  was  longer;  but  at  last  Maxwell 
came  out  into  the  glade  again.  After  a  few  minutes,  he 
began  an  imaginary  dialogue  with  some  person  or  persons, 
but  in  a  low,  determined  tone.  Then  he  walked  back- 
wards and  forwards  as  if  waiting.  Again  he  addressed 
his  victim,  who  appeared  to  be  pleading  with  him  for 
mercy.  He  answered  sharply  and  walked  to  and  fro 
again.     The  only  words  they  could  catch  were: 

"Well,  quick,  be  brief;  I  would  not  kill  thy  soul." 

The  dialogue  now  became  more  impassioned.  Maxwell 
uttering  quick,  jerky  expressions,  as  of  one  impatient  and 
not  going  to  be  trifled  with.  At  last  he  stopped  short,  and, 
stooping  down,  made  as  if  he  would  kneel  on  his  victim's 
breast  to  suffocate  or  destroy  him.  He  was  apparently 
interrupted  in  his  murderous  effort,  for  he  stood  up 
suddenly,  and,  looking  around,  shouted: 

"WTiat  noise  is  that?    Who's  there?" 

"He's  found  us  out,"  said  Debbie.     "What'U  we  do?" 


A  TERRIBLE   DISCOVERY  233 

"No,"  said  Pierry.  '"Tis  the  divil's  conscience  that's 
troubhng  him.     Whisht!" 

But  they  heard  no  more.  For  Maxwell,  after  one  long, 
lingering  look  at  the  dead  body,  passed  into  the  shrubbery 
again. 

In  a  few  seconds  he  came  back,  and  stood  over  the  dead 
body,  his  hands  clasped  and  hanging  down  before  him. 
Then  he  broke  out  into  an  awful  lamentation,  swinging 
his  hands  wildly,  hke  women  that  are  keening  over  a 
corpse;  and,  in  a  voice  broken  by  his  tears  and  moans, 
they  could  hear  him  saying: 

"Cold,  cold,  my  girl!  Whip  me,  ye  devils!  Blow  me 
about  in  winds!  Roast  me  in  sulphur!  Wash  me  in 
steep-down  gulfs  of  liquid  fire!  Oh!  dead,  dead,  dead! 
Oh!  Oh!!  oh!!!" 

These  last  words  he  almost  screamed,  his  arms  held 
wildly  over  his  head;  and  his  whole  frame  contorted  in 
agony.  The  lonely  hour,  the  otherwise  silent  scene,  the 
ghostly  moonlight,  the  heavy  drapery  of  mist  and  fog, 
and  this  man,  alone  with  his  terrible  remorse,  made  a 
picture  of  horror  and  desolation  that  would  have  para- 
lyzed any  soul  with  dread.  The  girl  nearly  fainted,  while 
her  tears  fell  fast ;  and  it  needed  every  effort  of  her  brother 
to  keep  her  from  shrieking  out  with  the  horror  that  con- 
fronted her.  At  last  Maxwell  went  away;  and  Debbie 
was  free  to  speak  amid  her  tears. 

"Oh,  Mother  of  Heaven  to-night!"  she  cried,  whilst  her 
brother  held  her  in  his  strong  arms,  "what  are  we  to  do, 
at  all,  at  all?  To  think  of  our  having  a  murderer  in  our 
house  for  over  six  months,  an'  we  thratin'  him  like  a 
gintleman.     Sure  I  knew  there  was  somethin'  quare  about 


234  LISHEEN 

him  all  along;  but  we  couldn't  sind  him  away.  An'  it 
was  a  girl!  Sure  I  ought  to  know  it.  What's  that  he  said: 
'Cowld,  cowld,  me  girl!'  Oh!  the  ruffian!  To  desthroy 
some  poor,  innicent  crachure,  that  never  did  nobody 
harrum  — " 

''Well,  he  seems  sorry  enough  for  what  he  done!"  said 
Pierry.  "  Did  ye  hear  him  callin'  on  all  the  divils  in  hell 
to  blow  and  blasht  him  ?  An'  sure,  bad  as  he  is,  it  made 
me  a'most  cry  to  hear  him  say:  'Oh!  oh!  oh!'  in  the  ind!" 

"What  good  is  all  that,  if  he  done  the  deed?"  said 
Debbie,  who  was  jealous  that  another  had  preceded  her 
in  Maxwell's  affections.  "Will  all  that  moanin'  and 
groanin'  bring  the  poor  thing  back  to  Hfe  ?  Well,  I  sup- 
pose he'll  have  to  swing  high  for  it  now.  Sure,  he  can't 
escape  much  longer!" 

"But  what  in  God's  Holy  Name  are  we  to  do?"  she 
continued.  "Sure,  we  can't  give  him  up  to  the  pelice. 
We'd  be  called  thraitors  and  informers  forever!" 

"We'll  lave  it  alone  till  to-morrow,  however,"  said 
Pierry,  "and  maybe  I'll  run  over  and  tell  the  priesht!" 

"The  very  thing,"  said  Debbie,  trying  to  dry  her  eyes. 
"But  how  am  I  to  meet  him  again,  or  set  at  table  with 
him,  or  make  his  bed?" 

"Well,  do  your  besht,"  said  Perry.  "It  v/ill  never  do 
to  let  on  that  we  know  anythin'.  Why,  he  might  murdher 
us  all  in  our  beds!" 

"May  God  and  his  Blessed  Mother  save  us!"  said 
Debbie.  "What  a  pickle  we  got  ourselves  into  by  too 
much  good  nature.  'Twill  be  a  lesson  to  us,  I  warrant 
you." 

They  passed  down  the  hillside  together,  and  then  sepa- 


A   TERRIBLE   DISCOVERY  235 

rated  in  the  yard,  Pierry  going  into  the  cabin  first.  After 
a  long  time  Debbie  entered;  but  kept  turning  her  face 
away  from  the  place  where  Maxwell  was  calmly  smoking 
and  chatting  with  the  old  people. 

"Come  over  and  take  a  hate  of  the  fire,"  said  her 
mother;  and  when  Debbie  demurred,  the  mother  looked 
at  her  keenly  and  saw  she  had  been  crying. 

"Why,  surely,  'tisn't  cryin'  about  a  couple  of  chickens 
you  are?"  she  said. 

"'Tis  enough  to  make  any  girl  mad,"  interposed  Pierry, 
"to  see  wan  fine  fowl  afther  another  desthroyed  by  that 
rogue  of  a  fox." 

"  Yerra,  no  matther,"  said  the  mother,  "there's  as  good 
to  be  got  where  thim  kem  from." 

This  commenced  a  pretty  little  debate,  after  Maxwell 
had  inquired  what  were  the  rules  regulating  compensation 
to  farmers  and  labourers  for  the  destruction  of  poultiy  by 
the  foxes  kept  for  the  gentiy's  amusement.  He  was  very 
indignant  at  the  revelations  —  the  refusal  in  nine  cases 
out  of  ten  to  repay  anything,  the  incrcduUty  of  the  gentle- 
man who  was  Grand  Almoner,  the  proofs  that  were  re- 
quired of  the  peasantry,  the  pittance  that  was  reluctantly 
given.  He  expressed  himself  freely  about  the  iniquitous 
custom.  It  was  another  sidcHght  on  Irish  history.  But 
no  matter  how  indignant  and  sympathetic  he  was,  espe- 
cially with  Debbie,  she  kept  her  face  averted  from  him. 
She  only  heard : 

"Cold,  cold,  my  girl!  Oh,  dead,  dead,  dead!  Oh!  oh!! 
oh!!!" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HOMELESS 

At  dawn  next  morning  the  whole  household  was  startled 
from  slumber  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  police  in  the 
yard.  They  had  heard  the  rumbHng  of  cars  in  a  kind  of 
half  dream,  and  the  swift  orders  of  ofl&cers;  but  the  half- 
dream  became  a  dread  reality  when,  on  looking  out  through 
the  half  pane  which  served  as  a  window,  they  saw  the 
rough  frieze  coats  and  the  glazed  caps  of  the  officers  of 
the,  law.  Debbie  was  the  first  to  realize  the  situation; 
and  Maxwell,  in  his  settle  bed,  awake  from  heavy  slumber 
to  see  her  half -dressed  form  in  the  kitchen,  and  hear  her 
shout  to  Pierr)^  in  the  loft: 

"Pierry,  Pierry,  get  up;  get  up!  the  place  is  full  of 
police!" 

And  in  an  instant  there  was  a  furious  knocking  at  the 
door  and  the  stem  order: 

"Open  in  the  Queen's  name!" 

The  girl  was  so  full  of  her  adventure  the  night  before, 
she  at  once  associated  the  presence  of  the  police  with  the 
crime  of  Maxwell ;  and  it  was  with  a  look  of  some  pity  and 
remorse  she  said  to  the  latter: 

"The  police  are  lookin'  for  some  wan!" 

She  was  swiftly  undeceived  when,  on  opening  the 
kitchen  door,  two  brutal  fellows,  clearly  bailiffs,  rushed 
in  and  began  at  once  to  take  possession  of  the  place. 

236 


HOMELESS  237 

Utterly  heedless  of  protestations  and  appeals,  they  com- 
menced flinging  out  into  the  yard  everything  they  could 
lay  hands  on,  utterly  regardless  as  to  whether  it  was 
broken  or  not.  Chairs,  tables,  the  settle,  the  ware,  tins, 
dishes,  pictures,  the  wheel-bellows  at  the  fire,  the  dried 
meat  over  the  fireplace,  the  irons  that  held  the  heavy 
pots  —  all  were  flung  out,  whilst  Pierry  and  Maxwell  and 
Debbie  looked  on  as  if  paralyzed.  Then  the  latter  rushed 
into  the  room  where  her  parents  were.  The  bailiffs  were 
following,  when  Pierry  rushed  forward  and  planted  him- 
self before  them : 

"  My  father  and  mother  aren't  up  yet,"  he  said.  "  Give 
them  time  to  dress  theirselves." 

But  with  an  oath  the  fellows  tried  to  get  past.  Pieriy 
pushed  them  back,  and  cried  out  to  his  sister. 

She  instantly  came  forward  and  placed  a  heavy  pike  in 
her  brother's  hands.  Thus  armed,  he  beat  the  baihffs 
back  into  the  kitchen,  and  held  the'  pike  at  rest  to  guard 
his  father's  privacy.  The  fellows  shouted  for  help;  the 
police  rushed  in,  made  some  feint  to  throw  the  boy  off  his 
guard,  and  in  an  instant  had  him  and  his  sister  hand- 
cuffed and  led  out,  but  not  before  one  of  the  policemen 
was  seriously  stabbed  in  the  thigh.  As  Debbie  passed 
out  she  threw  a  look  of  withering  scorn  at  Maxwell,  and 
said : 

"I  know  what  you  are;  but  I  didn't  Imow  you  wor  a 
coward.     But  your  time  is  near." 

He  flushed  up  and  said  nothing,  but  looked  like  one 
paralyzed.  Then  he  was  rudely  hustled  out  of  the  room 
into  the  yard,  where  brother  and  sister  were  guarded  by 
the  police.     In  a  few  moments  the  old  couple,  sorrowful 


238  LISHEEN 

but  resigned,  were  driven  out  from  their  home,  and  the 
work  of  demolition  proceeded.  It  took  the  baiUffs  many 
hours  to  accomplish;  for  they  were  now  in  no  hurry,  but 
went  on  calmly  with  their  dreadful  work;  and  a  huge 
colHe  dog,  who  took  a  family  revenge  by  biting  one  of 
the  baihffs  severely,  had  to  be  evicted  and  evicted  again 
and  again.  Then  the  bams  had  to  be  visited,  the  turkeys, 
geese,  and  hens  ejected ;  and  the  whole  round  of  the  farm 
examined,  lest  any  hving  thing  should  be  left  on  the 
place. 

It  was  near  three  o'clock,  and  the  orders  were  given  to 
the  officers  to  close  in,  when  Hamberton  and  Miss  Moulton 
rode  in  from  the  main  road,  through  a  dense  mass  of 
spectators,  and  into  the  yard.  They  had  come  by  acci- 
dent on  the  terrible  scene.  They  had  been  out  for  an 
afternoon  ride,  when  their  attention  was  attracted  by  the 
presence  of  the  vast,  black  crowd  that  filled  the  fields  and 
Hned  the  ditches  at  Lisheen.  They  were  respectfully 
saluted  by  the  police ;  and  Hamberton  entered  into  a  close 
conversation  with  the  District  Inspector,  whilst  Claire 
Moulton  rode  over  and  inquired  soUcitously  of  Debbie 
how  the  whole  unfortunate  affair  could  have  arisen.  She 
was  dreadfully  shocked  at  seeing  the  steel  handcuffs  on 
the  poor  girl,  and  she  said  with  some  feehng  to  the  officers : 
"Surely  these  manacles  are  not  necessary?" 
The  officer  said  nothing,  but  pointed  across  the  yard 
where,  in  a  butt,  recHning  on  coarse  straw,  the  wounded 
policeman  lay.  But  Debbie,  tortured  by  the  revelations 
of  last  night,  furious  at  their  eviction  and  the  perfidy  of 
Maxwell,  and  tired  after  the  long  day's  trial,  hung  down 
her  head  and  was  sullenly  silent.     She  wanted  no  sym- 


HOMELESS  239 

pathy  from  that  quarter,  Claire  Moulton  turned  her 
horse's  head  aside;  and  Debbie  looking  up  saw  Mr. 
Hamberton  arguing  with  the  sherifiF,  and  apparently  pro- 
posing a  settlement  that  would  allow  them  to  retake 
possession  of  their  home.  The  latter  apparently  was  on 
the  point  of  yielding,  for  Debbie  could  hear  the  poUce 
discussing  the  whole  question,  and  just  then  Hamberton 
had  taken  out  a  notebook  and  was  rapidly  writing  in  it, 
when  Alaxwell  was  seen  to  go  over  and  remonstrate  with 
him.  The  result  was  that  Hamberton  replaced  the  note- 
book in  his  pocket  and  shook  his  head,  as  if  the  matter 
were  impracticable. 

Debbie  had  witnessed  the  whole  thing  with  blazing 
eyes,  and  she  muttered  between  her  teeth: 

"Thraitor  and  murdherer!  But  you'll  swing  for  this 
a-yet!" 

The  baihffs,  having  walked  the  farm,  and  filing  outside 
the  boundaries  every  Hving  thing,  had  come  back  into  the 
yard;  and,  after  some  dehberation,  they  proceeded  to 
demolish  the  dwelHng  house.  It  was  at  this  crisis  the  old 
people,  who  had  hitherto  looked  on  in  calm  resignation 
at  their  fate,  raised  a  wild  cr}^  of  lamentation.  It  looked 
as  if  the  final  hope  had  been  cut  from  beneath  their  feet; 
for  so  long  as  the  dwelling  was  there,  there  was  a  chance 
of  resuming  possession.  Now,  the  decree  seemed  to  be 
irrevocable. that  the  family  should  not  enter  on  their  land 
again.  The  dense  crowd  outside  began  to  show  symp- 
toms of  excitement,  when  the  wild  cries  of  the  old  people 
reached  them;  and  a  stray  stone  was  dropped  on  the 
thatch  where  the  bailiffs  were  at  the  work  of  destruction. 
The  night-shades,  too,  were  falhng,  and  the  officer  looked 


240  LISHEEN 

anxious.  He  had  a  long  journey  before  him;  and  how 
could  he  conjecture  what  might  happen  under  the  cover 
of  night,  and  passing  through  a  hostile  country?  He 
looked  anxiously  at  his  watch;  and  again  Hamberton 
approached  the  sheriff,  apparently  to  remonstrate  with 
him  on  the  altogether  unnecessary  demolition  of  the  Httle 
home.  He  appeared  to  be  prevailing,  and  the  sheriff  had 
put  up  his  hand  to  stop  the  dismantling  of  the  roof,  when 
again  Maxwell  interfered,  and  said  something  that  ap- 
parently induced  the  officer  to  decide  otherwise.  It  was 
such  gross,  uncalled-for  treachery  that  even  the  patient 
old  man  said  aloud: 

"Dom  your  blood,  you  scoundrel!  Isn't  this  a  nice 
return  for  takin'  you  aff  the  road  and  makin'  a  dacent 
man  av  you?" 

But  the  old  woman  interfered : 

"Lave  him  to  God,  Owen!    Lave  him  to  God!     Shure 
whin  we  mint  well,  'twill  be  all  the  same  bye-'m-bye!" 

And  Pierry  said,  and  he  threw  his  voice  out  from  the 
midst  of  the  posse  of  police  that  surrounded  him: 

"Yes;  lave  the  ruffian  to  God,  and  the  hangman's  rope, 
that's  swinging  for  him  this  many  a  day!" 

Maxwell  flushed  up  as  he  saw  public  attention  thus 
drawn  toward  him,  and  then  he  grew  suddenly  pale,  as 
he  saw  Hamberton's  and  Miss  Moulton's  eyes  bent  on 
him  in  surprise.  But  there  was  no  longer  time  for  senti- 
ment. The  night  was  falling;  the  bare  rafters  of  the  little 
home  at  Lisheen  were  now  letting  in  the  fading  light  on 
wreck  and  ruin ;  the  window  had  been  long  since  smashed ; 
the  door  hung  on  its  hinges.  The  evil  work  was  done. 
The  Inspector  looked  again  at  his  watch,  shook  hands 


HOMELESS  241 

with  Hamberton,  raised  his  hand  in  salute  to  Miss  Moulton, 
pulled  up  his  scabbard,  and  ordered  his  men  to  fall  in. 

Maxwell,  looking  wistfully  at  the  two  prisoners,  seemed 
undecided  what  to  do.  Then,  under  a  sudden  impulse, 
he  strode  over  to  where  Debbie,  who  had  been  sitting  on 
a  cart  surrounded  by  poHce,  was  standing  up  to  accom- 
pany her  captors  to  gaol.  She  looked  him  straight  be- 
tween the  eyes  in  her  fearless  way ;  and  his  face  fell  before 
her  gaze.     But  he  had  to  say  something. 

"Don't  judge  me  too  hard,  now,"  he  pleaded.  "I 
cannot  explain.  Some  day  you  will  understand  and 
forgive." 

The  old,  smothered  affection  rose  up  in  the  girl's  heart, 
as  she  saw  his  worn  and  woe-begone  face.  There  was 
nothing  of  the  self-assurance  of  a  traitor  there.  Only  a 
pitiful,  pleading  look  for  mercy  and  compassion.  But 
the  remembrance  of  last  night  came  up,  and  steeled  her 
to  every  kinder  feeHng. 

"There's  One  that  will  judge  you  and  condemn  you  — 
you  know  for  what!" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  he  said.  "I  tell  you, 
as  God  is  my  Judge,  that  I  have  done  no  wrong  to  your 
family  or  yourself.  You  will  understand  this  soon;  and 
all  will  be  clear." 

"I  only  understand,"  she  said,  "that  wan  day,  not  so 
long  ago,  I  called  you  back  when  you  were  facin'  the 
world.  May  the  Lord  forgive  me  for  it!  Now%  go  your 
own  ways,  and  may  the  divil,  your  father,  guide  you." 

And  jerking  her  shawl  over  her  head  with  her  shoulders, 
as  the  poHceman  helped  her,  she  strode  forward  to  join  her 
brother.     The  old  people  came  forward  to  say  good-bye. 
16 


242  LISHEEN 

"God  save  you,  and  God  keep  you,  alanna!"  said  the 
weeping  mother,  "Sure,  never  mother  reared  a  betther 
son  nor  daughter  than  ye.  God  save  you  and  keep  you; 
and  come  back  soon!     Sure,  God  is  above  us  all!" 

And  she  kissed  the  weeping  boy  and  girl  again  and 
again.  The  old  man  kissed  them  both  in  silence,  and 
passionately  wrung  their  manacled  hands.  Then  turned 
away  weeping. 

Maxwell  had  sat  down  on  a  broken  cart  far  over  in  a 
comer  of  the  yard.  He  had  touched  the  nadir  of  human 
misery,  and  sat  in  the  growing  darkness,  his  head  bent 
forward  and  supported  by  his  hands.  He  was  wondering 
if  on  earth  there  were  then  a  more  unhappy  man  than 
himself.  He  had  made  a  magnificent  attempt  and  had 
utterly  and  hopelessly  failed.  Fate  was  against  him;  and 
worse  than  Fate,  circumstances  over  which  he  had  no 
control.  The  idea  that  he  had  previously  entertained,  of 
lifting  up  these  people,  socially  and  intellectually,  appeared 
now  so  ludicrous  that  he  actually  laughed  sardonically  at 
himself.  To  think  of  dining  with  the  sword  of  Damocles 
raising  your  scalp  was  considered  absurd,  he  thought;  but 
to  think  of  lifting  up  this  race  with  that  frightful  incubus 
of  landlordism  weighing  on  it,  night  and  day,  was  pre- 
posterous. There  is  no  room  in  an  Irish  peasant's  cabin 
for  books.  No  room  for  anything  but  the  mattock  and 
the  spade  to  make  gold  for  strangers. 

And  yet  under  this  awful  cloud  of  depression  he  saw  a 
gleam  of  light  —  the  change  in  his  own  circumstances, 
the  possibility  of  his  doing  better  in  another  sphere  of 
action.  But  all  this  belonged  to  the  higher  and  more 
speculative  part  of  his  undertaking.     But  Maxwell,  too, 


HOMELESS  243 

was  emotional.  He  was  so  far  from  being  a  mere  doctri- 
naire and  enthusiast,  that  even  his  dismal  failure  would 
have  been  supportable,  but  that  he  felt  so  deeply  for  the 
troubles  that  had  fallen  so  swiftly  on  this  beloved  house- 
hold, where,  looking  back,  he  saw  that  he  had  been 
comparatively  happy.  He  knew  well  it  was  Nettervdlle's 
wounded  pride  and  vanity  that  had  precipitated  this  awful 
crisis,  in  the  anguish  of  which  he  had  deeply  shared.  The 
sorrows  of  the  Uttle  family  were  his.  He  felt  for  the  aged 
father  and  mother;  he  felt  sorely  for  the  manacled  boy  and 
girl,  who  had  been  to  him  brother  and  sister.  He  felt  for 
the  desolation  and  min;  but  most  of  all  he  felt  that  he, 
in  some  mysterious  manner,  had  come  to  be  regarded  as 
a  deadly  and  treacherous  enemy.  He  knew  that  the  few 
words  he  had  spoken  to  Hamberton  and  the  sheriff  were 
wrongly  interpreted;  but  this  did  not  account  for  the 
sudden  change  in  the  whole  tone  and  temper  of  the  family 
towards  him.  The  words  addressed  to  him  by  Pierry  and 
Debbie  hinted  at  something  strange  and  mysterious.  Yes; 
he  parted  with  them  now  full  of  kindness  and  gratitude  to 
them ;  but  with  their  minds  poisoned  against  him.  Traitor! 
Ingrate!  Houseless!  Homeless!  Surely  the  night-shades 
never  gathered  around  a  more  miserable  man. 


PART  III 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


BEFORE  THE   FOOTLIGHTS 


In  the  snug,  well  appointed  drawing-room  of  a  hand- 
some villa  outside  Dublin,  a  small  but  very  select  party  of 
Dublin  fashionables  was  gathered  at  the  close  of  a  cold 
evening  early  in  the  March  of  this  year.  The  lawn  in 
front  sloped  down  to  the  sea;  and  on  a  summer  evening 
the  view  across  Dublin  Bay,  down  along  the  coast,  to 
where  Bray  Head  juts  out  and  frames  the  picture  in  green 
and  gold,  would  be  almost  unrivalled.  This  evening, 
with  the  cold  east  wind  blowing  back  to  the  shore  the 
plumes  of  smoke  from  cross-Channel  steamers,  the  lawn 
looked  gray  and  sad  in  the  growing  twilight ;  but  in  the 
large  bay-window  that  jutted  over  the  basement  in  the 
villa,  there  was  a  pretty  picture  that  lent  a  little  light  and 
beauty  to  the  scene.  A  fair,  tall  woman  in  evening  dress 
was  turning  over  the  pages  of  an  album  or  pictorial  story 
book  for  the  delectation  of  a  little  boy,  whose  yellow 
ringlets  ran  over  his  dark  blue  velvet  dress,  and  hid  the 
broad  collar  of  fine  lace  that  covered  his  shoulders  and 
breast.  The  child  looked  intensely  pleased  with  the 
amusement.  The  lady  looked  tired  and  weary.  But 
suddenly  that  aspect  of  sadness  disappeared,  and  she 
appeared  to  make  a  violent  effort  in  the  transformation, 
for  she  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height,  smiled  softly, 
and  gently  toyed  with  her  rings,  when  a  gentleman  came 

247 


248  LISHEEN 

forward,  spoke  a  few  pleasant  words,  drew  the  boy 
gently  aside,  and  pulled  down  the  blinds,  against  which 
instantly  shone  the  soft  ruby  light  from  the  chandelier 
inside. 

It  was  the  evil  quarter-hour  before  dinner  —  the  pars 
gelida  before  that  daily  holocaust  of  society,  when  the 
guests  are  frozen  by  first  introductions  or  Umited  ac- 
quaintance ;  when  the  hostess  is  frozen  by  frightful  antici- 
pations of  spoiled  viands,  kitchen  catastrophes,  yawning 
intervals  between  courses,  and  all  the  other  dread  possi- 
bilities of  the  dinner-table;  when  the  waiters  are  frozen 
into  frigid  icicles  of  propriety  and  decorum ;  and  probably 
the  only  warm  person  under  the  roof  is  the  cook.  Mabel 
Outram,  who  had  just  returned  from  the  darkness  and 
screened  Hghts  of  the  window,  where  she  could  toy  with 
a  boy's  curls  and  forget  herself,  now  put  on  her  stage 
appearance  before  the  footUghts,  and  looked  cold  and 
dignified  as  the  rest,  which  coldness  did  not  in  the  least 
degree  thaw  out  even  when  she  knew  she  was  an  object 
of  admiration;  and  had  overheard  a  Httle  prim  old  lady, 
who  had  been  watching  her  through  a  tortoise-shell 
pince-nez,  whisper: 

"  A  daughter  of  the  Gods,  divinely  fair." 

And  cold  and  slimy  as  a  coiled  snake  was  Ralph  Outram 
as  he  leaned  against  the  marble  mantelpiece,  and  Hstened 
cynically  to  the  dreary  platitudes  of  a  certain  professor 
of  ethnology,  who  was  pouring  into  his  ears  a  lot  of  gra- 
tuitous information  about  the  very  India  from  which 
Outram  had  so  lately  come.  He  hstened  with  lifted  eye- 
brows and  scornful  lips  to  the  bookish  learning  of  the 


BEFORE   THE   FOOTLIGHTS  249 

amiable  but  tiresome  pedant;  and  when  the  latter,  tapping 
him  confidentially  on  his  coat-sleeve,  asked: 

"But  you  will  clear  up  one  point  for  me,  on  ethnological 
grounds  only,  —  not  on  historical,  or  theological,  or  philo- 
sophical grounds,  but  on  ethnological  —  because  really 
there  is  no  science  worth  speaking  of  in  the  end  but 
ethnology,  —  what  is  this  I  was  going  to  ask?  Oh,  yes! 
The  ethnological  explanation  of  the  very  singular  fact 
that  a  handful  of  men,  say  fifty  thousand  at  most,  can  keep 
down,  subdue,  and  control  some  hundreds  of  millions  of 
(what  I  am  led  by  my  rather  extensive  reading  to  beheve) 
the  most  intelHgent  and  highly-cultured  races  on  the 
earth?" 

Outram  looked  his  questioner  all  over,  pulled  his  red, 
bristling  moustache,  and  answered  sententiously  and  with 
pauses  between  the  words: 

"The  whip  —  and  —  the  —  sop.!" 

"Wha  —  what?"  said  the  professor,  staring  at  him. 

"The  whip  —  and  —  the  —  sop!"  repeated  Outram, 
with  slower  and  more  prolonged  pauses. 

"I  don't  quite  understand,  my  dear  friend,"  said  the 
professor.  "You  military  men  have  the  advantage  of  us 
literary  folk,  in  that  you  can  express  yourselves  laconically, 
and,  if  I  may  use  the  expression,  emphatically.  The 
whip  —  and  —  the  —  sop  ?  I  never  heard  of  such  things, 
and  I  feel  sure  I  have  read  every  book  that  was  ever 
written  about  India." 

"You  won't  find  these  things  in  books,"  said  Outram. 

"Where  then?"  asked  the  professor. 

"In  real  life,"  answered  Outram,  "of  which  books  are 
but  a  fallacious  and  lying  presentment.    India  is  gov- 


250 


LISHEEN 


cmcd,"  he  continued,  as  the  professor  was  about  to  make 
a  strong  protest,  "by  two  things  —  the  shades  of  Hastings, 
Clive,  Gough,  Havelock,  and  others;  and  is  held  down, 
strapped  down,"  he  said,  with  vivacity,  "by  the  whip  — 
and  the  sop.  The  sop  is  held  in  the  left  hand,  and  is 
extended  to  those  who  are  worth  it.  The  whip  is  held  in 
the  right  hand  behind  the  back  —  thus,  and  they  who 
won't  accept  the  sop  must  accept  the  whip;  and  it  is  the 
less  pleasant  of  the  two." 

"Dear,  dear,  you  surprise  me  veiy  much,"  said  the 
mystified  professor,  "I  must  take  a  note  of  this.  It  is 
most  interesting.  The  whip  —  and  —  the  —  sop.  The 
whip  in  the  left  hand  to  be  extended  first;  and  whosoever 
does  not  take  the  whip  must  swallow  the  sop.  Most 
interesting  from  an  ethnol — " 

But  just  then  the  amiable  professor  had  to  be  recalled 
to  social  duties;  and,  as  he  passed  into  the  dining-room, 
his  partner  was  much  embarrassed  by  hearing  him  murmur: 

"  The  whip  and  the  sop !  The  —  whip  —  and  —  the  — 
sop!  Dear  me!  Strange  I  never  heard  of  such  things 
before!" 

Mabel  and  Outram  were  the  guests  of  the  evening,  and 
occupied  the  places  of  honour  next  the  host  and  hostess; 
and  the  dinner  drew  wearily  along.  Its  monotony  was 
broken  for  Mabel  by  three  events.  The  first  was,  that  she 
was  asked  more  than  once  by  the  little  amiable  old  lady 
of  the  tortoise-shell  pince-nez,  who  had  flattered  her  with 
such  consummate  subtlety  in  the  drawing-room,  whether 
she  did  not  admire  very  much  a  spray  of  lihes  of  the 
valley,  which  sparkled  across  the  deHcate  background  of 
a  clump  of  maiden-hair  fern;  and  a  magnificent  bunch  of 


BEFORE  THE  FOOTLIGHTS  251 

crhysanthemums,  a  name  which  the  old  lady  feigned 
several  times  to  forget,  although  lost  in  admiration  of  the 
superb  browns  and  coral  reds  of  the  winter  flower.  The 
second  was  a  startling  statement  made  by  a  young  lady 
that  she  had  a  pet  poodle  that  would  easily  fit  into,  and 
be  decidedly  comfortable,  in  one  of  the  ruby  finger-glasses 
on  the  table.  The  third  was  an  animated  discussion  that 
was  going  on  at  the  further  end  of  the  table  within  the 
circle  dominated  by  the  hostess,  and  limited  to  Outram 
and  the  professor. 

The  latter  had  never  got  over  his  surprise  at  the  naive 
explanation  of  British  supremacy  in  India  that  had  been 
given  by  Outram;  and,  as  he  reflected  during  the  pauses 
of  the  dinner  courses,  he  became  convinced  that  cither 
Outram,  hke  many  other  Anglo-Indians  of  whom  he  had 
heard,  was  profoundly  ignorant  of  the  bearings  of  the 
vast  question  propounded  by  himself,  or  else  was  delib- 
erately mocking  him.  This  last  idea  gradually  became  a 
certainty,  as  he  observed  the  cynical  manner  in  which 
Outram  seemed  to  treat  every  question,  social  or  other- 
wise, that  came  up  for  discussion  at  table;  and  being  a 
man  of  profound  erudition  and  enjoying  a  European 
reputation,  he  was  much  annoyed  at  the  contemptuous 
flippancy  of  this  officer.     He  had  a  swift  revenge. 

A  young  girl,  questioning  Outram  about  Hindoo  life 
and  manners,  hinted  her  idea  that  the  Brahmins  were  a 
class  of  men  distinguished  by  rare  holiness  of  life  and 
detachment  from  all  earthly  things.  This  was  quite 
enough  to  awaken  all  the  angry  contempt  of  Outram  for 
subject  races  of  any  kind. 

"There  is  no  measuring  the  depths  of  ignorance,"  he 


252  LISHEEN 

said,  "that  exist  amongst  all  Europeans  on  this  subject. 
Books  are  written  that  deserve  only  to  be  burned  by  the 
common  hangman.  You  will  see  articles  in  the  Fort- 
nightly and  Nineteenth  Century  that  should  not  be  written 
by  a  clerk  in  a  London  counting-house.  Brahmins  pious  ? 
Brahmins  disinterested?  We  will  soon  hear  that  a  Jew 
hath  a  conscience;  or  that  a  Fakir  is  clean." 

The  professor  was  gently  toying  with  his  dessert-fork; 
and  he  looked  up  with  a  smile  of  bland  satisfaction  mant- 
ling his  rosy  face,  framed  in  silver- white  whiskers. 

'*I  fear,"  he  said,  as  if  about  to  answer  some  foolish 
question  put  by  a  beardless  undergraduate,  "that  Mr. 
Outram  is  too  sweeping  in  his  observations.  There  are 
distinctions  in  this  matter  as  in  all  things  else.  There  is, 
of  course,  a  certain  class  of  low-caste  Brahmins,  —  the 
Brahmin  Sowkar,  or  the  Marwarree,  —  a  kind  of  priestly 
Shylocks,  who  are  usurious  and  exacting.  But,  then, 
there  is  also  the  Chitpawan  or  Kdnkanee  Brahmin,  who 
have  given  us  in  India  leading  hghts  in  every  department 
of  social  and  poHtical  Hfe." 

And  the  professor  laid  down  his  fork,  and  looked 
around,  as  if  he  would  ask.  Is  there  any  other  point  on 
which  you  would  desire  to  be  enUghtened? 

Outram  scowled  at  him  with  all  the  contempt  of  an 
ancient  expert  for  a  young  amateur;  and  he  asked  in  a 
chilling  way: 

"The  professor  has  been  in  India,  I  presume?" 

"  Oh,  no,  not  at  all,"  said  the  professor.  The  admission 
generally  brings  a  blush  of  inferiority  with  it;  but  not  so 
with  the  professor.  "  It  is  a  pleasure  in  store  —  a  pleasure 
In  store!" 


BEFORE  THE  FOOTLIGHTS  253 

"But  I  have,"  said  Outram,  with  significance.  "I  have 
only  just  returned  from  fifteen  years'  service  in  every  part 
of  India  from  the  Himalayas  to  Cape  Comorin." 

"And  it  was  I,"  said  the  professor  with  modest  assur- 
ance, "who  wrote  the  article  on  'The  Brahmins'  for  the 
Encyclopadia  Indica." 

It  was  a  triumph.  Everyone  felt  it.  The  sympathy 
of  the  entire  table  was  with  the  learned  professor,  Mabel 
was  listening  with  a  little  embarrassment,  but  much 
interest. 

"And  so  you  hold,  sir,"  said  Outram,  icily,  "that  you 
can  gather  more  information  about  a  people  or  a  race 
from  books  —  I  presume  you  read  a  great  deal  on  the 
subject?" 

"I  had  to  consult  no  less  than  three  hundred  and 
twenty-seven  authors,"  said  the  professor,  "and  to  employ 
two  amanuenses,  in  order  to  expedite  the  work." 

"A  great  cry  and  little  wool,"  said  Outram,  offensively. 
"And  do  you  still  think  that  the  reading  of  books  can  give 
as  close  an  insight  into  the  habits  of  a  people  as  direct 
intercourse  and  observation?" 

"Certainly,"  said  the  amiable  professor,  not  at  all 
heeding  the  insult,  "certainly,  my  dear  sir.  Is  it  not 
clear  that  the  unprejudiced  observations  of  many  persons, 
who  have  taken  their  ideas  either  from  personal  expe- 
rience, or  the  foresight  of  others,  should  count  more  for 
truth  than  the  observations  of  one  man,  who  possibly  — 
I  do  not  say  it  appHes  to  you  —  possibly,  may  have  been 
unable  to  divest  himself  of  the  prejudices  of  an  official?" 

It  sounded  reasonable  to  all  but  Outram.  He  answered 
again  sharply: 


254  LISHEEN 

"I  have  seen  certain  things,  and  can  testify  to  them. 
You  have  never  seen  them,  and  cannot  testify.  Which  is 
the  more  likely  to  have  grasped  the  tmth?" 

"Certainly  I  who  have  not  seen  these  things,"  said  the 
professor. 

"I  think  we  shall  leave  the  gentlemen  to  discuss  these 
questions  over  their  cigars,"  said  the  hostess,  rising. 
"They  are  too  deep  for  us  poor  women!" 

And  with  that  sad  confession  of  inferiority,  the  ladies 
swept  from  the  dining-room. 

When,  after  some  Httle  time,  the  gentlemen  rejoined 
them,  it  was  quite  clear  there  was  not  only  an  armistice, 
but  a  positive  alHance  between  the  professor  and  his 
antagonist.  Nay,  the  professor  had  become  enthusiastic 
about  Outram,  and  had  scribbled  over  half  a  note-book 
with  learned  jottings  for  future  reference.  Blessed  cigars! 
Blessed  Lady  Nicotine!  How  could  anyone,  least  of  all 
a  king,  have  written  against  thee,  thou  peacemaker 
amongst  men? 

"We  mustn't,"  said  the  professor,  as  he  sat  comfortably 
upon  a  sofa,  propped  with  pillows,  and  held  his  teacup 
in  his  left  hand,  whilst  he  waved  his  right  hand  gently, 
"we  mustn't  again  introduce  learned  ethnological  discus- 
sions amongst  ladies;  but  my  friend,  Mr.  Outram,  has 
been  just  telHng  us  a  story,  —  an  experience  of  Indian  Ufe, 
which  will  bear  repetition  and  be  not  quite  out  of  place 
in  a  drawing-room.     Ahem!" 

Outram  drew  his  red  eyebrows  together  In  a  kind  of 
scowl,  but  instantly  recovered  himself,  and  toying  with  a 
teaspoon,  he  said: 

"The  professor  is  too  kind.     I  fear  the  story  is  not  quite 


BEFORE   THE   FOOTLIGHTS  255 

SO  interesting  as  his  benevolence  would  lead  you  to  sup- 
pose!" 

"Let  us  be  judges  of  that,  Mr,  Outram,"  said  his 
hostess.  "It  will  have  the  merit  of  novelty  to  us  all, 
except,  of  course,  Mrs.  Outram." 

"Don't  except  me,  please,"  said  Mabel.  "I  do  not 
recollect  any  incident  in  Mr.  Outram's  Indian  Hfe  that 
would  merit  the  professor's  encomiums." 

There  was  a  note  —  a  sHght  note  of  sarcasm  here ;  and 
Outram  winced  under  it.  But  he  threw  the  feehng  aside 
gaily. 

"Quite  true.  I  did  not  deem  it  sufficiently  interesting 
to  speak  of  it  before.  It  was  a  remark  of  Professor 
Masson's  that  elicited  it.  If  the  narrative  has  a  leaden 
ring  in  it,  blame  the  professor,  not  me." 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  as  if  pondering  over 
the  incident.     Then  he  said: 

"It  occurred  in  the  Mahratta  country,  during  one  of 
these  periods  of  famine  that  recur  so  frcc^uently  in  India. 
The  Mahrattas  are  a  fierce  warHke  tribe,  with  whom  we 
have  had  some  trouble  — " 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  the  professor,  forgetting  himself 
for  a  moment.  "Did  you  say  the  Mahrattas  were  —  I 
beg  pardon.     Yes!  Yes!  you  are  quite  right." 

A  young  lady,  during  the  awkward  pause,  was  heard 
murmuring: 

"Where  in  wild  Mahratta  battle  fell  my  father,  evil -starred." 

"Well,"  continued  Outram.  "The  Mahrattas,  as  I 
was  saying,  are  a  fierce  warlike  tribe.  There  would  be  no 
finer  class  of  men  in  India  than  the  "Desh"  Mahrattas, 


256  LISHEEN 

were  it  not  for  these  wild  Brdhmins,  who  would  corrupt' 
the  unfallen  angels.  But  they  are  superstitious,  believe 
in  the  existence  of  gods,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing.  And, 
as  a  result,  they  are  sometimes  cruel.  Well,  during  one 
of  those  periodical  famines,  when  the  people  were  dying 
hke  flies,  one  poor  woman  of  high  caste  happened  to  be 
among  the  victims,  and  she  left  behind  her  a  httle  child, 
a  girl,  then  not  more  than  three  or  four  years  old.  There 
were  no  other  relatives;  and  one  of  these  vile  Brahmin 
priests  (Poo j  drees  they  call  them  in  some  places)  suggested 
that  the  anger  of  a  certain  female  divinity  should  be  pro- 
pitiated by  the  sacrifice  of  this  child.  They  did  not  put 
the  child  to  death;  they  feared  British  vengeance  and 
justice.  They  simply  exposed  the  child  at  the  foot  of  a 
hideous,  beastly,  vulgar  image  of  this  amiable  goddess. 
What  they  expected  was  obvious.  Not  that  Siva  or  any 
other  piece  of  woodwork  would  destroy  the  child ;  but  that 
a  panther  or  a  tiger  would  stray  that  way,  and  do  the 
work  of  sacrifice. 

"A  good  Mussulman,  however,  like  the  Samaritan  of 
old,  passed  that  way,  and  although  he  ran  a  fearful  risk, 
he  rescued  the  child,  and  kept  her  in  hiding  for  some  time. 
To  throw  the  wretched  fanatics  off  the  track,  he  had  a  few 
lambs'  or  kidhngs'  bones  scattered  about  the  place. 
After  some  years,  he  took  back  the  child,  and  kept  her 
in  his  own  house.  But  he  had  no  sooner  done  so  than 
a  fierce  storm  arose.  Questions  were  asked  that  could 
not  be  answered;  inquiries  were  made  that  could  not  be 
shelved;  and  in  the  end  the  good  man  was  subjected  to 
such  obloquy  and  calumny  that  he  determined  to  part 
with  the  girl,  although  she  had  become  as  dear  to  him  as 


BEFORE  THE  FOOTLIGHTS  257 

a  daughter.  People  at  home,  who  read  books,"  here 
Outram  glanced  at  the  professor,  "are  at  Hberty  to  form 
their  own  crude  opinions  about  foreign  races;  but  I  tell 
you,"  here  Outram's  voice  became  so  fierce  and  hoarse 
that  the  ladies  started,  "that  it  needs  experience  of  those 
conquered  and  half-savage  tribes  to  understand  their 
deviUsh  machinations.  Fortunately,  Hke  your  good  Irish 
here,  they  hiss  and  spit  at  each  other,  and  would  sell 
their  fathers  for  a  rupee;  and  this  alone  makes  their 
subjection  easy." 

"Well,"  he  continued  more  calmly,  as  if  he  were  freeing 
himself  from  all  personal  interest  in  the  matter,  "it  then 
became  a  question  where  Ballajee  Chitnees  could  send 
his  adopted  child,  whom  he  had  called  Satira.  At  length 
he  sent  her  far  up  the  country  to  a  fellow-Mussulman, 
reputed  pious  and  honourable ;  but  even  there,  vengeance, 
Brahminical  vengeance,  followed  the  girl,  and  after  some 
months  her  new  protector  was  glad  to  part  with  her  to 
a  certain  British  official,  who,  as  he  knew  well,  snapped 
his  fingers  at  the  whole  tribe  of  Brahmins  and  Mahome- 
dans. 

"Under  his  protection  she  grew  up,  a  tall,  thin  girl, 
with  soft,  black  eyes,  lustreless,  unless  when  excited,  and 
then,  by  all  the  gods  of  India,  you  never  saw  such  sheet- 
hghtning  as  that  which  shot  and  played  beneath  that 
girl's  forehead." 

He  stopped  a  moment  as  if  conjuring  up  that  figure. 
He  did  not  notice  his  wife's  eyes  fixed  steadily  upon  him 
with  awakened  curiosity. 

"I  forgot  to  say,"  he  continued,  "that  she  had  not  a 
bawbee  in  the  way  of  money,  but  there  was  found  in  her 
17 


258  LISriEEN 

garments  a  ring,  a  strange  intaglio,  resembling  those 
single  eyes  in  triangles  which  sometimes  represent 
the  Trinity  in  Christian  countries.  The  eye  was  cut 
deep  into  a  kind  of  opalesque  stone,  and  the  latter  was 
ringed  in  sohd  gold  in  the  shape  of  a  cobra.  This 
does  not  sound  very  strange.  What  is  strange  is,  that 
in  the  light  the  stone  was  a  dead,  dull  pearly  thing; 
but  in  the  dark  it  seemed  to  flame  and  smoke,  just 
as  phosphorus  does.  And  there  was  a  strange  and 
ominous  similarity  between  the  flames  of  that  intaglio 
and  those  which  shot  across  that  girl's  eyes  when  she 
grew  excited.  Whether  the  ring  was  of  value  in  a  lapi- 
dary's eyes  I  cannot  say.  Some  would  think  the  stone 
valuable  in  itself;  some  thought  it  valueless.  But  it  was 
a  tahsman,  reputed  to  have  the  power  of  warding  off 
death  from  the  wearer — " 

"But,  my  dear  sir,"  interrupted  the  professor,  "that's 
quite  impossible  —  superstitious  you  know!  Mere  reUcs 
of  Paganism.  I  wrote  an  article  on  amulets  many  years 
ago  for  the  Encyclopedia  Britannica  —  the  gist  of  which 
was  that  these  things  were  all  right  for  the  Middle  Ages  — 
Holy  Grails,  Lady  of  Shalott,  Magic  Mirrors,  etc.,  but 
they  are  completely  out  of  place  in  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  drawled  Outram.  "There  is  one 
wise  saw,  professor,  I  would  recommend  for  your  con- 
sideration. 

"There  are  more  things  in  Heaven  and  Earth,  Horatio"  — 

You  know  the  rest.  Anyone  who  has  been  in  the  East, 
and  has  not  merely  read  of  it,  will  tell  you  that  Europeans 


BEFORE  THE   FOOTLIGHTS  259 

had  better  restrain  their  expressions  of  omniscience  when 
dealing  with  these  questions.  At  any  rate,  I  can  testify 
that  more  than  once  I  escaped  a  sudden  death  whilst 
wearing  that  ring.  Call  it  coincidence  if  you  please.  I 
think  it  was  more." 

"But  the  story,  the  story,  Mr.  Outram,"  exclaimed  the 
ladies.  "What  became  of  Satara?" 

"Oh,  Satara!  Well,  she  grew  up  rapidly  under  her 
British  protector  and  developed  extraordinary  powers. 
She  could  do  what  she  pleased  with  her  wonderful  hands 
—  string  beads  and  corals,  arranging  colours  in  a  way 
that  would  make  Europeans  despair;  she  could  carve 
metals  in  a  kind  of  repousse  work  that  was  a  miracle  to 
behold;  she  could  cut  intaglios  and  raise  cameos  on  all 
kinds  of  stones;  and  shape  and  pohsh  alabaster  and  other 
vases  until  they  shone  like  precious  stones.  And  she 
interwove  with  all  her  work  a  kind  of  symbolism,  never 
allowing  the  smallest  thing  to  pass  from  her  hands  without 
some  mute  lesson  or  warning  conveyed  in  a  sign,  some- 
times almost  imperceptible,  but  always  clear  to  the  ini- 
tiated. Where  she  learned  that  symbolism  no  one  could 
tell.  Probably  in  the  mountains  under  Poojdrees  or 
Thibetan  Lamas,  who  had  strayed  across  the  frontier, 
and  who  seem  to  know  all  that  is  worth  knowing  about 
the  other  world. 

"Well,  things  went  on  in  this  way  for  some  years. 
Various  attempts  were  made  to  kidnap  the  girl;  but  she 
was  safe  under  the  EngHsh  flag.  Then  a  strange  thing 
occurred.  Unknown  to  himself,  Sdldra  had  contracted  a 
very  strong  affection  for  her  protector;  and  one  day,  in 
a  fit  of  jealousy,  she  upbraided  him  in  terrible  language 


26o  LISHEEN 

for  some  imagined  slight.  He  resented  it  and  turned  her 
from  the  house.  Then  he  relented  and  brought  her  back. 
She  used  to  hang  around  his  room,  chaunting  strange 
poems  in  her  native  dialect : 

'"What  has  his  slave  done  to  anger  thee,  Son  of  the 
Priests  of  the  Sun!  All  night  long  have  I  lain  flat  on  my 
face  on  my  bed ;  and  there  was  no  one  to  give  me  food  or 
drink.  Who  was  the  Mighty  One  that  saved  me  from 
the  anger  of  Siva  and  the  teeth  of  the  serpent  of  the 
desert  ?  Who  was  raised  up  by  the  full  speech  of  the  gods 
to  be  my  father;  and  who  hath  taken  the  place  of  Medudu, 
my  brother?  And  shall  I  be  cast  away  from  before  the 
face  of  my  Lord;  and  nevermore  break  his  bread  and 
wait  upon  Him?' 

"This  was  all  very  well;  but  again  the  same  awful 
jealousy  broke  out,  and  again  she  was  dismissed. 

"The  third  time  she  came  again,  purring  and  fawning 
around  him,  like  a  wild  cat;  and  again  he  drove  her 
forth.  She  went  away  meekly,  having  first  deposited  the 
ring  on  his  dressing-table  with  a  few  kind  words  of  fare- 
well. But  next  morning,  when  he  awoke,  he  found  him- 
self all  coated  as  with  silver.  He  was  a  leper  from  head 
to  heel." 

The  ladies  cowered  together  and  uttered  httle  shrieks. 
But  Outram  went  on: 

"He  came  down  to  Madras,  where  I  met  him.  For 
six  months  the  doctors  were  dosing  him  with  all  kinds  of 
medicine;  and  at  last  he  was  partially  cured.  Some 
fakirs  offered  to  cure  him  wholly  by  incantations;  but  he 
would  have  none  of  them.  When  I  was  coming  home, 
he  gave  me  the  magic  ring." 


BEFORE  THE   FOOTLIGHTS  261 

"Where    is    it?      Show    it    to    us!"    exclaimed    the 

company. 

"Not  now,  not  now!"  he  said.     "My  wife — " 

Here  for  the   first   time  he  glanced   towards   Mabel. 

White  as  alabaster,  she  lay  back  on  the  pillows  of  the 

sofa  in  a  swoon  that  seemed  like  Death. 


CHAPTER  XXV 


THE   NEW  OVERSEER 


Hugh  Hamberton  and  his  ward  had  accompanied  the 
mournful  procession  from  Lisheen  as  far  as  the  main 
road,  when,  on  a  sudden  thought,  the  former  wheeled 
round  his  horse,  and  both  rode  back  to  the  farm-yard. 
The  old  people  were  still  sitting  disconsolate  on  the 
wreck  of  their  little  household  furniture,  and  Hamberton 
approached  them  with  a  proposal  to  come  over  and  settle 
down  near  Brandon  Hall, 

"You  cannot  stay  here,"  he  said  kindly,  "there  is  no 
shelter  for  you.  Come  with  me,  and  I  shall  put  you  in 
a  new  cottage,  and  get  work  for  you." 

They  thanked  him;  but  no! 

"Here  I  was  born,  and  here  my  father  and  mother 
lived  before  me,"  said  the  old  woman.  "An'  here  I  was 
married,  and  my  children  first  saw  the  light.  I  cannot 
lave  it  now  till  I  lave  it  for  the  last  time." 

"But  you  have  no  shelter,  no  house  room,"  pleaded 
Hamberton.  "You  cannot  remain  here  to  perish  with 
cold  and  hunger." 

"No  matter,"  was  the  reply.  "God  is  good!  We'll 
make  a  little  bed  for  ourselves  in  the  cow-house  or  bam  — " 

"But  that  will  be  illegal  possession,  and  you  can  be 
arrested,"  said  Hamberton,  his  British  ideas  of  the  su- 
premacy of  the  law  rising  above  every  other  consideration. 

262 


THE   NEW   OVERSEER  263 

"So  much  the  better,"  said  the  old  woman,  "we  can 
thin  go  and  jine  our  poor  children,  and  be  all  together 
agin." 

Disappointed,  and  almost  angry  at  such  stubbornness, 
Hamberton  was  about  to  leave  the  yard,  when  he  saw 
the  soUtary  figure  of  Maxwell  bent  together  in  the  growing 
dusk.  He  rode  over,  and  tapped  him  lightly  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Come,  my  man,"  he  said,  "you  have  no  business  here 
any  longer." 

Maxwell  arose.  His  face  was  so  drawn  and  pallid 
from  suffering,  that  Hamberton  hardly  knew  him. 

"Yes.  Thank  you  very  much.  I  will  go,"  Maxwell 
said. 

"Then  we'll  ride  over,  and  send  a  trap  for  you,"  said 
Hamberton. 

"No,  no,  I  shall  walk,"  said  Maxwell.  "It  is  only  a 
matter  of  a  few  hours." 

"  But  you  look  weak  and  suffering,"  said  Claire  Moulton. 
"We'll  send  the  trap  and  you  can  be  with  us  sooner  than 
if  you  walked." 

"No,  no;  thank  you  ever  so  much,"  he  said.  "The 
truth  is,  I  am  anxious  to  get  away  from  this  place  as 
speedily  as  possible." 

"Very  good,  then,"  said  Hamberton.  "We  shall  ride 
over,  and  make  things  ready  for  you.  Go  straight  to 
Donegan's  cottage.     Donegan!    You'll  remember?" 

"Yes,  thank  you.  I  shall  be  there  between  eight  and 
nine  o'clock."     And  Hamberton  and  his  ward  rode  away. 

Maxwell  looked  around  the  wretched  place  and  picked 
out  of  the  cottage  debris  his  Httlc  vaHse,  now  much  dilapi- 


264  LISHEEN 

dated.  He  went  slowly  across  the  yard,  and  accosted 
the  desolate  old  people. 

"I'm  going  away,"  he  said  humbly,  "perhaps  for  ever. 
I  cannot  leave  your  hospitable  house  without  thanking 
you  for  all  your  goodness  and  kindness  to  me  while  I  was 
with  you." 

"And  the  devil's  own  bad  return  you  made,"  said  the 
old  man  turning  away. 

"You  do  not  understand.  Some  day  I  will  explain; 
and  all  will  be  cleared  up,"  said  Maxwell,  in  a  pleading, 
humble  way. 

"It  will,"  said  the  old  man,  bitterly.  "It  will  be  cleared 
up  that  we  kep'  a  rogue  and  a  thraitor  under  our  roof." 

"Asy  now,  asy,  Owen,"  said  his  good  wife.  "Shure, 
how  do  we  know?  In  any  case,  it  was  for  the  love  of 
God  we  tuk  you  in  an'  kep'  you.  An'  'tis  for  the  love  of 
the  same  God,  we  forgive  you,  if  you  have  done  anythin' 
agin  us." 

"Then,  you'll  say  good-bye?"  he  said,  holding  out  his 
hand. 

With  the  old  instinct,  the  poor  woman  wiped  her  clammy 
hand  on  her  check  apron,  and  put  it  in  his  palm. 

"Say  'God  bless  you!'  also,"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  good-bye,  and  God  bless  you,"  said  the  pious  old 
woman.     "Sure  a  prayer  hke  that  can  harrum  no  wan!" 

"God  will  reward  you!"  he  said,  turning  mournfully 
away. 

It  was  a  long  and  weary  road  that  led  to  the  village 
of  Cahercon,  nestling  under  the  mighty  shadow  of  Brandon 
Hill,  and  touching  the  hem  of  the  mighty  ocean  in  the 


THE  NEW  OVERSEER  265 

recesses  of  Brandon  Bay.  He  had  hardly  gone  a  mile 
from  Lisheen,  when  the  hills  sloped  up  precipitously,  and 
he  saw  he  had  to  make  his  way  through  a  mountain  pass 
or  gorge  that  shelved  upwards  and  upwards,  until  it 
touched  the  summit,  and  then  sloped  down  to  the  valleys 
through  which  the  Ownamore  makes  its  way  to  the  sea. 
It  was  a  lonely  walk.  The  moment  he  entered  the  gorge, 
nothing  could  be  seen  but  the  blue  stars  glinting  softly 
down,  all  their  vast  splendours  shorn  away  by  distance, 
until  they  became  but  points  of  hght  in  the  inimitable 
blackness  of  space. 

He  was  hungry  and  weak  and  melancholy,  and  it  is 
these  things  that  make  men  meditative.  And  Maxwell's 
thoughts  ran  back  to  the  problem  he  had  suggested  to 
himself  so  many  years  ago  in  Trinity;  and,  looking  down 
on  the  past  few  months  he  had  spent  there  in  that  lonely 
valley,  and  looking  up  at  the  heavens,  so  solemn,  so  sad, 
so  silent,  he  heard  himself  muttering:     "Yes. 

We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  on, 
And  our  little  life  is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 

And  the  thought  came  uppermost:  Would  it  not  be  as 
well,  here  and  now,  in  this  remote  mountain  valley,  to  lie 
down  and  seek  the  rest  that  is  eternal  ?  For  old  sayings, 
old  songs,  old  utterances  came  upward,  and  he  thought: 

"  And  if  there  be  no  meeting  past  the  grave, 
If  all  is  darkness,  silence,  yet  'tis  rest; 
Be  not  afraid,  ye  waiting  hearts  that  weep. 
For  God  still  giveth  His  beloved  sleep, 
And  if  an  endless  sleep  He  wills  —  so  best." 

Suppose  then,  he  considered,  I  should  now  turn  aside  from 
this  road,  and  lie  dovm  on  the  wet  bracken  or  furze  there 


266  LISHEEN 

in  some  mountain  cavity,  where  the  eye  of  man  seldom 
rests;  and  suppose  that  in  a  few  days  or  weeks  some 
shepherd's  dog  should  find  me.  There  would  be  an  in- 
quest; and  the  verdict:  "Tramp,  died  from  hunger  and 
exposure.  Name  unknown.  Supposed  deserter,  etc.," 
and  then  all  would  be  over.  No  more  problems,  no  more 
speculations.  Absorbed  in  the  Infinite  like  all  the  many 
millions  before  and  after  me!    That  is  all. 

It  was  but  a  fancy,  a  dream  occasioned  by  hunger. 
But  he  shook  it  aside  as  a  cowardly  suggestion;  and  had 
he  not  a  mission,  growing  every  day  more  interesting  and 
absorbing  as  he  mixed  more  freely  with  his  fellow-beings  ? 
He  turned  aside  where  a  labourer's  cottage  fronted  the 
road,  across  which  the  ruddy  light  from  the  fireplace 
streamed.  The  family  were  at  their  frugal  supper. 
Bareheaded,  the  father  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  his 
children  grouped  around  him.  The  good  housewife  was 
going  about  busily.  It  was  a  picture  of  hfe,  social  happi- 
ness, comfort,  love,  consecrated  by  poverty. 

"God  save  you!"  said  Maxwell,  in  the  country  dialect. 
He  had  learned  so  much. 

"God  save  you  kindly,"  was  the  response.  There  cer- 
tainly was  some  reserve.  Tramps  were  constantly  coming 
around,  and  frightening  women  and  children.  And  Max- 
well knew  his  appearance  was  hardly  respectable. 

"I'm  weak  with  hunger!"  said  Maxwell. 

"That's  a  dizase  that's  aisily  cured,"  said  the  man  of 
the  house.  "Here,  Paudheen,  git  out  o'  that,  and  give 
your  chair  to  the  stranger." 

Paudheen,  with  his  mouth  crammed  with  potatoes, 
reluctantly  rose,  carrying  with  him  an  armful  of  potatoes. 


THE   NEW   OVERSEER  267 

Maxwell  sat  down,  eagerly  swallowed  some  home-made 
bread  and  milk,  and  turned  to  go. 

"You're  in  a  mightly  hurry  intirely,"  said  the  man  of 
the  house. 

"I  must  be  at  Cahercon  to-night,"  said  Maxwell,  taking 
up  his  valise. 

"Oh,  that's  where  the  grate  gintleman  Hves,"  said  his 
host. 

"  Mr.  Hamberton  ?  Yes.  I  have  been  evicted  with  the 
rest  of  the  family  down  there  at  Lisheen  to-day;  and  am 
offered  employment  by  Mr.  Hamberton." 

"Wisha,  were  you  now?  Sit  down  and  tell  us  all 
about  it,  man,"  said  the  host.  "We  hard  of  the  eviction; 
but  that's  all.     Tell  us  all  about  it." 

It  was  the  smallest  recompense  he  could  make  for  the 
generous  hospitality  offered  him.  But  he  delayed  only  a 
httle  time,  and  soon  got  out  again  under  the  stars. 

His  way  now  lay  through  a  deep 'defile  in  the  mountains, 
which  rose  black  and  threatening  at  his  right  hand.  At 
the  left  side  there  was  after  a  time  a  deep  decHvity  broad- 
ening out  into  a  plain;  and  he  thought  he  saw  the  gUnt 
of  the  stars  in  a  tiny  lake,  and  heard  the  murmur  of  a 
river  on  its  way  to  the  sea.  That  river  he  soon  had  to 
cross,  and  down  on  the  level  road  he  made  his  way 
swiftly  forward,  till  the  lights  of  the  little  hamlet  broke 
across  his  way.  He  found  Donegan's  house  easily,  and 
had  a  warm  welcome.  The  first  thing  that  struck  him 
was  the  sense  of  comfort  and  perfect  neatness  all  around 
the  cottage,  contrasting  so  strongly  with  the  discomfort 
and  sordid  surroundings  at  Lisheen.  The  floor  was  tiled 
and  spotless,  there  was  a  large  range  whose  steels  shone 


268  LISHEEN 

in  the  lamplight,  the  dresser  was  well  filled  with  plates 
and  dishes  and  tins,  the  children  were  gathered  around 
the  kitchen  table,  reading  by  the  hght  of  a  lamp,  whose 
opal  shade  threw  a  golden  Hght  on  their  books.  Donegan 
was  a  tall,  thin,  Celtic  figure,  sinewy,  clean,  alert,  with 
deep  blue  eyes  shining  out  from  beneath  black  eyebrows. 
His  wife  was  a  small,  blonde  woman,  very  quietly  but 
carefully  dressed.  She  came  forward  without  any  bustle, 
and  taking  the  vaHse  from  Maxwell's  hand,  she  said: 

"You  must  be  both  tired  and  hungry." 

"I  am  both,"  he  said  cheerfully,  his  spirits  rising  with 
the  brightness  of  the  scene  around  him.  "But  I  think 
I've  come  to  the  right  place  for  both," 

"Well,  sit  down,  and  make  yourself  at  home,"  she  said. 
"I'll  have  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  couple  of  eggs  for  you  in  a 
minit." 

"You  come  from  the  eviction  at  Lisheen?"  said  her 
husband,  bending  his  keen  eyes  on  Maxwell. 

"Yes,"  said  the  latter.  "It  has  been  a  sad  and  a 
trying  day."  He  said  no  more  but  looked  vacantly  at  the 
range  fire. 

After  supper  he  was  shown  into  a  small,  neat  bedroom, 
poorly  but  tastefully  furnished.  There  was  a  camp  bed 
in  a  comer.  The  Hnens  were  spotless,  the  blankets  soft 
and  clean.  The  counterpane  was  of  cotton  with  a  heavy, 
honeycomb  pattern.  There  was  a  washstand,  a  dressing- 
table  of  deal,  and  a  small  strip  of  carpet  near  the  bed.  A 
few  pious  pictures  decorated  the  papered  walls.  He  crept 
swiftly  into  bed,  and  the  sense  of  comfort  on  the  hard 
mattress  and  beneath  the  cold,  clean  sheets  kept  him 
awake  for  a  while.     He  thought  that  then  and  there  was 


THE  NEW  OVERSEER  269 

the  beginning  of  a  change  in  his  fortunes,  and  the  end  of 
his  trials.  But  his  thoughts  would  revert  to  the  events 
of  the  day  just  passed  —  the  mournful  horror  of  which 
was  oppressive.  He  shook  it  off,  as  all  troubles  should 
be  thrust  aside  by  great  thoughts.  And  great  thoughts  — 
thoughts  of  self-sacrifice  and  benevolence,  thoughts  of 
human  fellowship  cemented  by  noble  actions,  thoughts  of 
a  glorious  surprise  for  the  poor  people  with  whom  his  hfe 
had  been  so  strangely  linked,  of  their  resurrection  and 
subsequent  life,  freed  from  all  lower  cares  for  ever;  wider 
and  nobler  thoughts  of  the  regeneration  of  a  whole  race 
to  be  effected  by  new  methods  on  a  broad  scale  of  human- 
itarianism  and  justice  —  flooded  his  soul  and  seemed  to 
fill  him  with  a  new  sense  of  exaltation  and  happiness, 
under  which  he  passed  away  into  the  realms  of  uncon- 
sciousness and  happy  dreams. 

One  of  these  disturbed  him  much.  It  was  just  before 
the  dawn.  And  it  woke  him  up  with  a  merry  peal  of  bells, 
as  Donegan  burst  into  his  room. 

"That's  the  seven  o'clock  bell.  You're  not  to  mind  it, 
the  masther  said,  this  morning.     I'm  off." 

He  was  in  such  a  mighty  hurry  that  when  he  returned 
at  twelve  o'clock  to  dinner.  Maxwell  could  not  help 
interrogating  him. 

"Oh,  begor,"  he  said.  "If  we  aren't  inside  the  works 
at  the  lasht  shtroke  of  the  bell,  it  manes  a  quarthcr's  wages 
docked  for  that  day." 

"Smart  practice!"  thought  Maxwell.  "But,"  he  said, 
"you  have  excellent  wages!" 

"Divel  a  betther!"  said  Donegan.  "A  pound  a  week, 
house  free,  two  tons  of  coal  at  Christmas,  and  a  quarther 


270  LISHEEN 

of  garden.  Thin  herself  aims  a  few  shillings  by  washin,' 
an'  all  round  we  are  fairly  thrated  enough!" 

"An'  quite  satisfied,  of  course?"  said  Maxwell. 

"Well,  ye-es,"  said  Donegan.  "There  was  wan  fella 
wanted  to  make  a  fortin  all  of  a  heap;  but  begobs  he 
came  to  grief,  I'll  tell  you  the  shthory  to-night.  But 
the  masther  would  hke  to  see  you  to-day." 

"Where?"  said  Maxwell.     "At  the  works?" 

"No.  Up  at  the  grate  house,"  said  Donegan.  "He 
said  about  three  or  four  o'clock." 

"All  right.     I  shall  be  there,"  said  Maxwell. 

It  was  an  eventful  interview,  and  the  most  eventful 
feature  of  it  was,  that  Maxwell  noticed  on  his  entrance 
into  the  dining-room,  to  which  he  was  most  reluctantly 
introduced  by  the  Hveried  footman,  that  he  was  treated 
with  some  deference,  although  Hamberton  addressed  him 
brusquely;  and  that  Miss  Moulton  seemed  unable  to  rest 
her  eyes  on  her  work  but  was  watching  him  intently.  It 
was  the  first  time  since  he  left  DubUn  that  he  was  in  a 
room  that  recalled  by  its  surroundings  old  associations, 
and  everything  in  the  furniture,  the  hangings,  the  side- 
board, the  glass  and  silver,  the  noble  pictures,  seemed 
to  smite  his  senses  with  eager  and  pleasant  suggestions. 
The  contrast  between  such  elegance,  and  between  the 
whole  appearance  of  this  gentleman  and  lady  and  his  own 
shabbiness,  smote  him  with  shame  and  he  blushed  and 
fumbled  uneasily  with  his  worn  and  broken  hat. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Hamberton.  "Are  you  all  right  after 
your  journey?    Was  Donegan's  all  right?" 

"Yes,"  said  Maxwell.  "I  feel  well  this  morning.  The 
Donegans  were  very  kind." 


THE   NEW   OVERSEER  271 

"Look  here,  Maxwell,"  said  Hamberton,  playing  with 
a  paper-knife,  but  watching  his  visitor  keenly,  "you're  a 
bit  of  a  mystery,  you  know.  At  least,  it  is  quite  clear  you 
don't  belong  to  the  people  around  here.  By  the  way, 
Claire,  isn't  Maxwell  our  landlord's  name?" 

"Yes,"  said  Claire.     "That's  his  name." 

"And  a  d — d  bad  landlord  he  is,"  said  Hamberton. 
"I  had  the  devil's  work  to  get  a  lease  from  the  fellow  or 
his  agent  for  this  place.  He  had  as  much  fuss  over  it  as 
if  we  were  buying  land  in  Belgravia.  Well,  Maxwell, 
you're  a  mystery,  but  you  have  an  indefeasible  right  to 
keep  your  own  secrets,  and  I'm  the  last  man  in  the  world 
to  break  in  on  your  privacy.  You're  not  strong,  so  I 
have  determined  to  make  you  time-keeper  and  overseer 
in  these  works.  Bells  go  at  seven,  twelve,  one,  and  six. 
Half-time  on  Saturday.  Every  man  must  be  inside  the 
gate  at  the  last  stroke  of  bells  or  lose  a  quarter.  Do  you 
understand?" 

Maxwell  nodded. 

"You'll  also  hold  yourself  in  readiness  to  meet  me  at 
any  time,  and  do  any  account  work  or  other  I  shall  select. 
Your  wages  —  one  pound  a  week,  cottage  furnished  and 
free.     You're  not  married?" 

Maxwell  started,  and,  forgetting  his  part  for  the  mo- 
ment, looked  towards  Miss  Moulton  and  smiled.  Strange 
to  say,  she  smiled  back,  and  a  faint  tinge  ran  over  her 
face  and  forehead. 

"All  right.  Then  we'll  get  an  old  woman  to  do  the 
necessary  things  for  you.  Nance  Brien  ?  Would  she  do, 
Claire?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Moulton,  abstractedly. 


272  LISHEEN 

"Donegan  will  show  you  your  cottage,"  said  Hamber- 
ton,  bringing  the  interview  to  a  conclusion.  "Anything 
else?"  he  asked,  as  Maxwell  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"No,  but— " 

"Say  it  out,  man,  whatever  it  is,"  said  Hamberton. 

"Well,  you  see,  I'm  very  shabby  in  dress,"  said  Max- 
well, with  a  faint  blush.  "I  know  I'm  presuming  too 
much,  but  perhaps  you  would  advance — " 

"No,"  thundered  Hamberton.  " I  never  advance  wages. 
But  I'll  see  to  it.  Your  clothes  are  good  enough  for 
every-day  work.  I  suppose  'tis  Sunday  you're  thinking  of. 
By  the  way,  what  religion  do  you  profess?" 

"Well,  Church  of  Ireland,"  said  Maxwell. 

"Very  good.  But  we  have  no  church  here,  thank 
Heaven.  What  have  you  been  doing  for  the  last  few 
months  on  Sundays?" 

"Smoked  a  cigarette  whenever  I  could  get  it,  and  read 
Shakespeare,"  said  Maxwell. 

"Read  Shakespeare,"  echoed  Hamberton.  "You're 
the  very  man  I  want.     Have  you  read  any  other  authors  ?" 

"Yes.  All,"  said  Maxwell,  recounting  all  his  Hterary 
acquaintances,  ending  with  Ibsen  and  Tolstoy. 

"The  man  I'm  looking  for  all  my  life,"  said  Hamberton, 
half-musingly.  "I  don't  ask  how  you  have  become  ac- 
quainted with  all  the  demigods  of  literature,  but  you  can 
help  me  materially  to  build  up  the  social  and  intellectual 
character  of  my  people.  Have  you  any  objection,  or  is  it 
in  your  line?" 

"It  has  been  the  dream  of  my  life,"  said  Maxwell.  "It 
is  why  I  am  here." 

"Then  you  have  had  experience,"  said   Hamberton. 


THE  NEW  OVERSEER  273 

"How  did  you  succeed  with  these  poor  people  over  at 
Lisheen?" 

"I  dared  not  even  attempt  it,"  he  repHed. 

"Dared  not?" 

"Yes  —  dared  not,"  said  Maxwell,  with  some  heat, 
that  glowed  through  his  eyes  and  face.  "How  could  I 
speak  of  such  things  to  a  people  sunk  in  all  kinds  of 
abject  poverty,  with  the  hand  of  the  baiUff  ever  on  their 
doors,  and  the  awful  shadow  of  landlordism  glooming 
over  all?  What  time  had  they  for  such  things?  From 
cock-crow  to  sundown,  it  was  work,  work,  work,  and 
work  not  for  themselves  but  for  another.  Where's  the 
use  of  talking  about  the  resurrection  of  a  people  until  you 
remove  the  stone  from  the  door  of  their  sepulchre  ?  You 
cannot  have  a  nation  without  manhood ;  you  cannot  have 
manhood  without  education,  you  cannot  have  education 
without  leisure  and  freedom  from  sordid  cares,  and  you 
cannot  have  the  latter  until  landlordism  is  removed 
wholly  and  entirely  from  the  land.  We  are  Protestants 
in  some  shape  or  form.  But  I  tell  you,  we  would  have 
succeeded  in  making  our  Catholic  countrymen  brutes 
were  it  not  for  the  saving  power  and  grace  of  their  reli- 
gion. Don't  wonder  at  my  heat,  Mr.  Hamberton,  Miss 
Moulton.  If  someone  doesn't  speak,  the  very  stones  will 
cry  out  against  us." 

"True,  my  young  friend,  true.  I  wish  to  Heaven  your 
namesake.  Maxwell,  was  listening  to  you.  Meanwhile,  it 
is  a  good  rule  to  find  the  work  nearest  to  your  hand  and 
do  it.     I'll  place  at  your  disposal  all  the  books  you  need." 


18 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


DEPOSITIONS 


The  trial  of  Pierce  and  Debbie  McAuliffe  was  swift; 
the  judgment  summary  and  vindictive.  These  were  the 
days  when  Ireland  was  governed  by  satraps  —  half-pay 
officers,  returned  Indians,  etc.,  and  when  the  law  was 
stretched  to  the  utmost  against  agrarian  offences  of  every 
kind.  The  resistance  to  eviction  was  grave  enough,  the 
wounding  of  the  officer  made  it  heinous.  The  two  young 
people  were  sentenced  to  six  months  hard  labour,  and 
then  to  find  sureties  for  good  behaviour  for  twelve  months 
afterwards. 

Young  and  healthy,  they  bore  bravely  up  against  the 
rigours  of  confinement  for  some  weeks.  Then  the  meagre 
food  began  to  tell  on  constitutions  used  to  plentiful,  if 
hard,  fare.  Pierce  bit  his  lip  and  made  no  complaint. 
But,  after  the  lapse  of  a  couple  of  months  the  want  of 
food  weakened  Debbie's  mind,  and,  losing  all  her  pride 
of  being  a  victim  of  EngHsh  law,  she  began  to  brood  over 
her  sorrows  and  losses.  The  dread  soHtary  confinement, 
too,  began  to  affect  her  mind.  With  no  intellectual  re- 
sources, hardly  able  to  read,  she  was  thrown  in  upon 
herself,  and  the  mind,  Hke  a  mill  without  grist,  began  to 
grind  terribly  upon  itself.  Strange  hallucinations  would 
arise,  dreams  within  dreams,  even  in  her  waking  moments; 
and  the  centre  of  the  horrible  maelstrom  of  thought  was 

274 


DEPOSITIONS  275 

ever  and  always  Maxwell.  By  degrees  the  angry  thoughts 
that  would  come  uppermost  against  him,  and  which  in 
the  beginning  she  suppressed  with  an  effort,  began  to 
conquer  her;  and  she  raged  in  silence  against  him,  all  her 
smothered  and  untold  affection  tortured  into  ungovernable 
hate. 

At  last  one  day  a  visitor  told  her  that  IMaxwell  was 
installed  prime  favourite  at  Brandon  Hall  and  had  been 
transformed  from  the  aspect  and  condition  of  a  tramp  or 
labourer  into  the  decent  costume  and  appearance  of  an 
overseer.  Nay,  he  had  been  actually  seen  out  at  sea  in 
a  boat  with  Miss  Moulton.  That  same  day  her  father 
and  mother  were  brought  in  by  the  police  from  Lisheen. 
They  had  retaken  possession  of  the  house,  were  again 
evicted  and  warned.  They  again  defied  the  law,  and 
illegally  broke  the  padlocks  that  had  been  placed  on  the 
doors  and  WTre  now  arrested  on  the  charge.  The  thought 
drove  the  girl  wild.  She  paced  up  and  down  her  narrow 
cell,  her  hands  clutched  fiercely  behind  her  back.  Then, 
in  a  sudden  but  not  unpremeditated  impulse,  she  rang  her 
bell  violently,  and  the  wardress  appeared. 

"I  wants  to  see  the  Governor,"  said  Debbie,  doggedly. 

"The  Governor?"  echoed  the  w^ardress,  doubtingly. 

"Yes,"  said  Debbie,  excitedly.  "I  wants  to  see  the 
Governor,  and  at  wanst." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  wardress,  locking  the  door  care- 
fully and  departing  on  the  strange  errand. 

She  returned  quickly  and  informed  Debbie  that  the 
Governor  would  see  her  after  dinner. 

"Av  he  knew  what  I  wants  him  for,  he'd  see  me  now," 
said  Debbie.     "I  may  change  me  mind." 


276  LISHEEN 

"Come,  then,"  said  the  wardress. 

The  Governor  sat  at  his  desk  in  his  little  office  near  the 
front  entrance  to  the  prison.  He  was  an  old  man,  pale 
and  grave,  Hke  one  who  had  had  much  responsibility  and 
had  been  well  schooled  by  experience.  He  beckoned  to 
the  girl  to  be  seated,  and  ordered  the  wardress  to  remain. 

"I  wants  to  see  you  alone,"  said  Debbie,  with  an  air  of 
defiance. 

"That  cannot  be,  my  good  girl,"  said  the  Governor. 
"You  have  something  to  say,  or  some  complaint  to  make, 
and  we  must  have  a  witness." 

"Whin  the  gintlemen  comes  around,  they  sees  the  pris- 
oners alone  in  their  cells  without  anny  witnesses,"  said 
Debbie. 

"True.  But  that  is  for  complaints  against  officials. 
If  you  have  any  complaint  against  Wardress  Hickson,  I 
shall  take  it  in  her  absence." 

Debbie  moistened  her  dry  lips  and  rubbed  her  clammy 
hands  on  her  check  apron. 

"'Tis  no  complaint  I  have  agen  any  of  ye,"  she  said. 
'Tis  a  murdherer  that  I  wants  to  get  what  he  desarv^es." 

"Do  you  mean  a  man  who  has  actually  committed  a 
murder,"  said  the  Governor,  "or  do  you  mean  a  ne'er- 
do-well,  who  ought  to  be  in  gaol?" 

"I  mane  a  man  who  killed  a  girl,"  said  Debbie,  "and 
whose  conscience  is  throubling  him,  night  and  day,  over 
it." 

"That  is  a  very  serious  charge,  my  good  girl,"  said  the 
Governor.  "You  understand  the  consequences,  and  that 
you  will  be  bound  to  appear  against  this  man?" 

Nature  began  to  struggle  against  the  passion  for  revenge 


DEPOSITIONS 


277 


in  the  girl's  breast,  but  she  held  it  down  firmly  and  an- 
swered : 

"I  do.     I  only  want  him  to  get  what  he  desarves." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  the  Governor,  drawing  over  a 
sheet  of  foolscap.  "I  shall  take  notes  now  of  your  evi- 
dence; you  will  make  your  after-depositions  on  oath 
before  a  magistrate.     What  is  your  name?" 

"Debbie  McAuUffe." 

"That  is  Deborah,  I  suppose.     Place  of  residence?" 

"Lisheen." 

"Yes,  Lisheen,"  said  the  Governor.  "Now  an  inmate 
of  her  Majesty's  prison  at  Tralee."     He  continued  writing. 

"Now,  what  is  the  name  of  the  man?" 

"Robert  Maxle,"  said  Debbie. 

"  Very  good.  Trade,  or  profession,  or  business  ?  What 
is  he?" 

"He  was  workin'  wid  us,"  said  Debbie,  "as  a  farm- 
hand.    But  I  suspects  he's  somethm'  else." 

"What  do  you  suspect?" 

"Well,  some  says  he's  a  desarter  from  the  army,  but  I 
know  he's  a  gintleman." 

"A  gentleman?"  said  the  Governor,  laying  down  his 
pen,  and  looking  searchingly  at  the  girl,  and  then  at  the 
wardress. 

"Yes,"  said  Debbie,  seeing  his  incredulity.  "Maybe 
av  you  lave  me  tell  me  shtory  me  own  way,  without  yer 
cross-hackling,  you'd  get  at  the  thruth  sooner." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  Governor,  taking  up  his  pen  again. 
"But  be  careful,  my  good  girl.  This  is  more  important 
than  you  think." 

Again  Debbie  moistened  her  lips  and  choked  down  the 


278  LISHEEN 

emotion  of  affection  which  she  had  conceived  for  Maxwell, 
by  steadily  keeping  his  image  away  from  her  mind.  Then 
she  resumed: 

"  About  six  months  ago,  it  may  be  more  or  less,  a  thramp 
kem  to  our  dure.  There  was  no  wan  inside  but  me  poor 
mother.  We  were  all  out  in  the  fields.  He  had  nothin' 
wid  him  but  an  ould  bag.  Me  mother  gave  him  somethin' 
to  ate  and  dhrink,  and  whin  we  kem  back  from  the  fields 
me  father  tuk  pity  on  him,  and  axed  him  to  shtay  wid 
us,  as  he  couldn't  do  betther  for  himself.  So  he  shtayed. 
We  tuk  him  to  be  a  desarter  from  the  army,  becase  he 
looked  like  a  sojer,  but  I  knew  from  the  beginnin'  that 
he  wos  a  gintleman — " 

"How  did  you  know  that,"  asked  the  Governor. 

"  Be  his  inside  flannels  and  fine  linen  whin  I  was  washin' 
thim,"  said  Debbie  with  a  blush. 

"Well?" 

"There  wor  other  raysons,  too,"  continued  Debbie, 
"but  they  were  nayther  here  nor  there.  At  all  events  he 
shtayed  wid  us,  workin'  a  little,  ontil  about  Chrismas, 
whin  wan  day,  he  tuk  it  into  his  head  to  go  away.  He 
was  goin'  out  the  gate  whin  I  wint  afther  him  and 
shtopped  him,  and  axed  him  to  come  back.  He  didn't 
say  a  worrd,  but  kem  back,  an'  'twas  well  he  did,  for  that 
night  he  was  down  in  a  ragin'  faver.  We  nursed  him, 
meself  and  me  mother,  through  that  faver,"  continued 
Debbie,  taking  up  a  comer  of  her  apron,  and  twisting  it 
around  her  finger,  whilst  her  tears  fell  fast  at  the  recollec- 
tion of  those  days  and  nights  and  all  the  affectionate 
attention  they  had  lavished  on  Maxwell;  "we  brought 
him  the  priesht  to  console  him,  although  he  was  not 


DEPOSITIONS  279 

belongln'  to  us,  ontil  at  lasht  he  got  well,  and  was  able  to 
set  up.  Thin,  wan  day  a  gentleman  and  lady  called  to 
see  him;  an'  she  put  her  eyes  an  him,  an'  from  that  day 
out  we  got  no  good  av  him.  But  me  brother  sushpected 
somethin',  an'  he  watched  him.  He  saw  enough  to  make 
his  hair  shtand  on  ind.  Maxle,  the  man,  used  to  be 
goin'  up  be  himself  to  a  plantation,  or  screen  up  over  the 
house,  an'  there  me  brother  Pierry  watched  him.  He 
saw  him  carryin'  on  sech  antics  that  he  got  frickened  and 
axed  me  to  go  wid  him.  'Twas  a  moonlight  night,  an' 
there  was  a  heavy  fog,  but  we  could  see  ever}'thing. 
This  man  came  out  from  the  trees  into  an  open  place, 
and  began  callin'  on  the  sperrit  of  the  girl  he  killed,  an' 
goin'  up  an'  down,  hether  and  over,  ravin'  and  tearin' 
hke  a  madman.  I  didn't  see  the  ghosht  meself,  but 
Pierry,  me  brother,  did.  Well,  thin,  to  make  a  long 
shtory  short,  he  kep'  up  this  cryin'  and  moanin'  for  half 
an  hour  and  thin  he  wint  through  the  whole  thing  agin, 
murderin'  the  poor  girl  and  stifiin'  her.  I  wanted  to 
come  away,  but  me  brother  wouldn't  lave  me.  So  we 
shtopped  ontil  he  kem  out  agin  and  began  keenin'  over 
the  poor  corp,  an'  calHn'  on  all  the  divils  in  hell  to  blasht 
an'  blow  him  for  all  he  was  worth.  Then  the  cool  diAiI 
lighted  his  pipe  and  began  to  shmoke  as  if  nothin'  had 
happened,  an'  we  kem  away  dead  wid  the  fright  of  it." 

"But  what  was  the  girl's  name?"  asked  the  Governor. 

"How  do  I  know?"  said  Debbie.  "Sure  he  wasn't 
goin'  to  tell  us." 

"H'm,"  said  the  Governor,  musing  on  the  strange  stor\'. 
"And  where  is  this  man  now?" 

"I'm  tould  he's  over  at  a  place  called  Brandon  Hall," 


28o  LISHEEN 

said  Debbie.  "An'  he's  galivantin'  about  with  another 
girl  there.     I  suppose  he'll  kill  her  too." 

"Brandon  Hall?  That's  where  Mr.  Hamberton  lives," 
said  the  Governor. 

"Yes,"  said  Debbie.  "An'  'twas  he  and  some  girl  wid 
him  that  kem  over  and  turned  him  agin  us  the  day  we 
wor  thrun  out." 

"Very  well,  my  good  girl,"  said  the  Governor,  rising. 
"That  will  do  now  for  the  present.  I'll  just  read  over 
your  information  from  my  notes,  and  you  can  verify 
them,  and  afterwards  you  can  make  the  usual  depositions 
before  a  magistrate.  But  I  never  heard  of  the  murder  of 
any  girl  in  this  neighbourhood.     Did  you,  Mrs.  Hickson  ?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Hickson.  "Not  for  years  around 
here." 

"But  this  man  was  from  DubUn,"  insisted  Debbie.  "I 
tould  you  he  was  a  gintleman,  an'  from  far  away." 

"Oh,  very  good,"  said  the  Governor.  "Now  Usten, 
and  make  any  corrections  you  please." 

He  read  over  the  girl's  statements  from  his  notes,  slowly 
and  emphatically,  dwelUng  on  what  he  deemed  the  im- 
portant points  in  the  narrative.  He  then  asked  her 
whether  she  was  prepared  to  abide  by  what  she  had  said. 
Debbie  gave  a  reluctant  answer.  The  horror  of  the  affair 
and  of  its  consequences  was  beginning  to  smite  her  with 
a  kind  of  remorse.  She  was  then  asked  to  sign  her  name 
to  the  paper,  which  she  did  with  trembling  hand.  The 
wardress  witnessed  it  and  took  her  back  to  her  cell. 

Left  alone  with  her  own  thoughts,  and  reflecting  on 
what  she  had  done,  a  sudden  flood  of  feeling  swept  over 
her  weak  mind,  and  nearly  broke  down  her  reason.     It  is 


DEPOSITIONS  281 

always  the  case  with  weakened  intellects,  that  they  are 
goaded  into  sudden  and  often  irremediable  courses  under 
the  iniluence  of  passion  or  emotion,  and  then  sink  down 
into  corresponding  despondency  and  dread  of  the  very 
evil  they  had  been  so  exultant  in  committing.  The  even- 
ing had  come  down  too,  quickly;  the  darkness  was  gather- 
ing around  the  lonely  girl  in  her  whitewashed  cell,  and  all 
the  phantoms  of  a  highly  strung  imagination  began  to 
assemble  around  her  and  torment  her.  The  strong  affec- 
tion she  had  conceived  for  Maxwell  —  the  tenderness,  of 
which  she  was  unconscious  when  she  called  him  back 
from  the  road,  and  which  grew  into  a  deeper  feeling  from 
the  sense  of  the  help  and  protection  she  had  given  to  the 
sick  man  —  now  revived,  as  she  dwelt  on  every  particular 
of  their  Hves.  His  gentleness,  his  courage,  his  unfailing 
urbanity;  the  long  evenings  around  the  hearth,  when  he 
had  whiled  away  the  weary  hours  by  stories  and  such 
"interesting  conversation,  his  deference  towards  the  old 
people,  his  patience  with  rough  food  and  homely  bedding 
and  the  hardships  of  rural  life;  above  all,  his  demeanour 
towards  herself,  treating  her  with  the  respect  due  to  one 
of  high  rank,  and  never  resenting  her  practical  jokes  and 
stinging  allusions,  —  all  came  back  to  the  lonely  hours, 
until  she  paced  her  cell  with  long,  fierce  strides,  and 
something  hke  madness  seemed  to  mount  into  her  brain. 

She  flung  herself  upon  her  bed,  and  tried  to  calm  her 
agonized  brain.  In  vain  she  tossed  from  side  to  side, 
rose  up,  and  paced  her  cell  again.  Her  supper,  thin  gruel 
and  bread,  was  passed  in  through  the  aperture  in  the 
door.  She  swallowed  it  half-unconsciously  and  only  be- 
cause the  pangs  of  hunger  were  irresistible.    At  last,  when 


282  LISHEEN 

the  hour  for  retiring  came,  she  knelt  down  by  her  bed 
and  began  to  pray.  The  old  famihar  prayers  came  to 
her  hps,  but  now  without  meaning  or  unction,  and  she 
started  up,  almost  shrieking: 

"Mother  of  God  in  Heaven,  have  pity  on  me  this 
night!"  and  commenced  pacing  her  cell  again. 

At  midnight  she  lay  down  undressed,  but  her  restless 
brain  throbbed  back  over  the  past,  recalling  with  terrible 
distinctness  all  that  had  occurred,  whilst  her  conscience 
kept  asking.  What  business  was  it  of  hers,  if  Maxwell 
had  committed  murder?  Were  there  not  pohce  and  de- 
tectives, whose  business  it  was  to  discover  these  things? 
And  would  she  not  for  evermore  be  branded  as  an  ap- 
prover? And  how  could  she  stand  in  a  court  in  her 
prison  clothes,  and  give  evidence?  And  evermore  her 
brain  would  keep  repeating.  Too  late!  Too  late!  You 
have  taken  a  step  that  cannot  evermore  be  retraced. 

After  some  hours  of  such  torture,  the  wearied  brain 
stopped  its  wild  workings  for  a  moment,  and  she  sank 
into  a  troubled  sleep.  But  here  again  all  the  sub-con- 
sciousness of  her  mind  became  furiously  wakeful,  and  she 
had  some  fearful  dreams,  rushing  wildly  without  sequence 
or  cohesion  into  each  other,  —  a  panorama  of  horrid  and 
repulsive  pictures,  broken,  distorted,  and  only  uniform  in 
their  hideousness,  as  they  glided  into  each  other.  In  the 
last,  she  stood  perforce  on  the  drop,  side  by  side  with 
Maxwell.  She  was  to  die  with  him.  She  saw  all  the 
lugubrious  preparations  that  were  being  made  for  their 
execution.  She  seemed  not  to  care,  until  she  thought 
she  heard  Maxwell's  voice  muffled  from  beneath  the  white 
cap:  "Debbie,  forgive  me!"     She  tried  to  catch  his  hand 


DEPOSITIONS  283 

in  a  farewell,  but  her  hands  were  tied  together,  and  in 
the  effort  to  break  the  ligature  she  woke.  She  felt  the 
cold,  damp  sweat  of  terror  on  her  forehead,  as  the  gray, 
silent  dawn  crept  in  through  the  barred  window  of  her 
cell. 

She  rose  instantly  and  violently  jerked  the  bell.  The 
night-wardress  appeared. 

"I  wants  to  see  the  Governor,  and  immajietly,"  said 
the  half-frantic  girl. 

''Go  back  to  bed,  and  keep  yourself  quiet,"  said  the 
wardress. 

"No,  no,  no,"  said  Debbie.  "I  wants  to  see  him  at 
wanst.  I  tould  him  a  lot  o'  hes  yesterday,  and  maybe 
I'll  get  an  innicent  man  hanged." 

"Well,  he  can't  be  hanged  to-day,"  said  the  wardress. 
"You  can  see  the  Governor  after  breakfast.  Lie  down, 
an'  try  to  sleep." 

"God  help  me!  There's  no  more  shleep  for  me,"  said 
the  poor  girl,  as  the  wardress  drew  out  the  prison-door 
and  locked  it. 

After  breakfast  she  saw  the  Governor  again. 

"I  wants  to  tell  you,"  she  said  abruptly,  "that  I  tould 
a  parcel  of  hes  yesterday  about  that  man.  I  was  mad 
jealous,  whin  I  hard  he  was  keepin'  company  with  another 
girl  over  there  at  Cahercon." 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  keenly,  but  compassionately. 
He  then  touched  the  bell. 

"Send  Mrs.  Hickson  here!"  he  said. 

The  wardress  appeared. 

"Mrs.  Hickson,  has  the  doctor  called  yet?" 

"No,  sir.     He'll  be  here  at  eleven." 


284  LISHEEN 

"Well,  then,  let  him  see  this  poor  girl  first.  I  think 
she  is  a  case  for  Infirmary  treatment." 

"I'm  not  sick,"  said  Debbie.  '"Tis  throuble  of  mind. 
Av  you  tell  me  that  that  man  —  that  Maxle  won't  be 
hanged,  I'll  be  all  right  again." 

"I  think  I  may  promise  that,"  said  the  Governor. 
"But  you  must  see  the  doctor,  and  get  examined.  Please 
see  to  it,  Mrs.  Hickson." 

And  Debbie  was  placed  in  the  Infirmary  that  evening. 

Meanwhile,  the  one  most  interested  in  this  Httle  drama 
was  pursuing  his  own  course  with  a  singular  degree  of 
success,  and  some  happiness.  He  soon  perceived  that 
the  conditions  adapted  to  the  social  and  intellectual  resur- 
rection of  the  people  were  here  realized,  —  that  is,  material 
comfort  and  well-being  were  secured  without  the  nervous 
dread  of  being  removed  or  destroyed.  This  constituted 
the  element  of  safely,  the  one  element  that  has  always 
been  unhappily  absent  from  nearly  every  department  of 
social  hfe  in  Ireland.  For  Hamberton,  though  a  strict 
disciphnarian  over  his  men,  was  very  just,  and  even 
generous  with  them  when  he  saw  there  was  a  disposition 
to  act  fairly  towards  him.  Towards  Ned  Galwey,  and 
such  schemers,  he  was  inexorable;  and  yet,  even  after 
Ned's  dismissal  from  the  works,  Hamberton  contrived  to 
perform  many  a  secret  act  of  kindness  towards  him. 

Here  then  was  the  foundation  for  the  very  work  Max- 
well had  set  out  to  perform,  and  he  threw  himself  into  it  with 
energy.  In  a  short  time  he  had  completely  gained  Ham- 
berton's  confidence,  and  could  count  on  Miss  Moulton's 
co-operation.     By  degrees,  little  shelves  of  books  made 


DEPOSITIONS  2S5 

their  appearance  in  the  cottages  —  pretty,  little  cheap 
editions  of  standard  authors,  suited  to  the  people's  capaci- 
ties; the  sounds  of  accordion  and  concertina  were  heard 
every  night  through  the  open  doors ;  httle  dances  were  got 
up,  and,  as  the  days  grew  longer,  once  or  twice,  little 
picnics  were  held  away  up  on  Brandon  Hill,  or  out  on 
Brandon  Point.  Then,  one  day.  Maxwell  induced  Ham- 
berton  to  give  him  the  upper  loft  of  the  store,  where  speci- 
mens of  rare  marbles  were  kept.  This  he  turned  into  a 
concert-room  with  a  splendid,  wide  stage  at  the  end,  and 
here  he  proposed  to  give  lectures,  hold  penny  readings, 
and  give  dramatic  entertainments  the  long  nights  of 
winter. 

He,  too,  became  an  ever-increasing  object  of  interest 
to  Hamberton  and  his  ward.  His  gentlemanly  bearing, 
his  quiet,  unostentatious  work,  his  sohcitude  about  the 
men  and  their  famihes,  made  him  not  only  a  useful  but 
most  interesting  co-operator  in  their  work.  Sometimes, 
under  pretext  of  business.  Maxwell  was  invited  to  lunch 
at  Brandon  Hall,  and  after  Hamberton  had  discovered 
what  a  well-stored  mind  he  had,  and  what  a  knowledge 
of  books  and  men,  he  often  asked  him  up  to  spend  the 
evening  at  the  Hall,  where  they  talked  over  all  manner  of 
things,  —  the  world  of  men,  their  weakness,  their  mean- 
ness, their  nobility,  the  eternal  surprises  that  awaited 
everyone  who  made  a  study  of  them,  —  greatness  of  spirit 
where  one  would  least  expect  it,  and  baseness  and  brutality 
where  one  would  look  for  the  highest  and  loftiest  principles 
of  conduct. 

One  evening  the  conversation  turned  on  Gladstone's 
treatment  of  Gordon  at  Khartoum,  and  Maxwell  broke 


286  LISHEEN 

through  his  usual  calm  manner  and  flared  up  against  the 
treatment  of  the  hero. 

"So  he  is  a  hero  of  yours  also,  Maxwell,"  said  Hamber- 
ton.  "You  know  Miss  Moulton  keeps  a  lamp  burning 
before  his  picture,  as  they  do  before  the  Eikons  of  Russia." 

"Yes,  he  was  a  rare  silent  spirit,"  said  Maxwell.  "A 
man  who  could  endure  much,  who  could  fight  and  never 
lose  his  humanity,  and  who  had  the  deepest  and  most 
real  interest  in  the  very  races  which  he  subdued.  To 
have  power  and  not  to  abuse  it  seems  to  me  the  rarest  of 
all  virtues." 

"I  wish  he  were  at  Lisheen  the  other  day,"  said  Ham- 
berton.  "He  would  have  an  object-lesson  in  Irish  land- 
lordism." 

"Yes,"  said  Maxwell.  "I  wish  Gordon  had  come  to 
Ireland,  and  looked  at  things  with  honest,  unprejudiced 
eyes." 

"But  he  was  in  Ireland!"  said  Hamberton.  "Did  you 
never  hear?" 

"Never,"  said  Maxwell.  "I  should  give  something  to 
know  what  he  thought." 

"Perhaps  Miss  Moulton  would  tell  you,"  said  Hamber- 
ton. 

"I  have  treasured  a  letter  of  his,  found  and  pubhshed 
after  his  death,"  said  Claire  Moulton,  "in  which  he 
speaks  sympathetically  of  the  Irish." 

"And  what  does  he  say  about  landlords?  Tell  Max- 
well. He  may  use  it  in  one  of  his  charming  lectures  to 
the  men." 

"Oh!  very  little!  Only  that  he  would  sacrifice  a  thou- 
sand pounds  to  see  an  Irish  landlord  come  down  from 


DEPOSITIONS  287 

his  high  estate  and  live  a  few  months  amongst  the  farmers, 
and  as  one  of  them." 

Maxwell's  pale  face  flushed,  and  then  grew  more  pale, 
as  he  looked  questioningly  from  Hamberton  to  Miss 
Moulton.  But  he  saw  nothing  in  their  faces  to  lead  him 
to  think  there  was  any  subtle  allusion  to  himself. 

"A  safe  bet,  I  should  say,"  he  murmured  at  length. 

"And  yet  where's  the  impossibihty,  or  the  incongruity?" 
said  Hamberton.  "Even  as  a  novelty,  or  an  experiment, 
it  would  be  worth  attempting.  Coriolanus  tried  it,  Tolstoy 
is  trying  it  over  there  in  Russia,  there  was  an  al  Raschid 
amongst  the  Arabs.  Why  should  not  Irish  landlordism, 
barren  of  every  other  good,  produce  at  least  one  hero?" 

"You  hardly  loiow  them,"  said  Maxwell,  musing. 

"True.  I'm  afraid  Miss  Moulton  will  die  an  old  maid, 
for  she  avers  she  will  marry  the  impossible  hero,  whenever 
he  comes  her  way." 

"But  I  didn't  promise  to  wait  for  him,"  said  Claire. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


THE   PORPHYRY   VASE 


The  meditations  of  Ralph  Outram  as  he  stood  in  his 
dressing-gown  before  his  glass  the  morning  after  the 
dinner  party  were  not  pleasant.  Morning  meditations, 
as  a  rule,  are  not  pleasant.  It  is  only  when  the  blood 
has  begun  to  course  swiftly  through  the  brain,  and  to 
shake  off  the  stagnancy  where  unpleasant  visions  dwell, 
that  fresher  and  more  exhilarating  ideas  come  upward. 
But  his  was  not  the  unpleasantness  of  anticipations  or 
remorse.  Only  vexation  at  having  been  betrayed  into 
what  he  called  a  "tactical  blunder."  There  are  some 
minds  to  whom  tactical  mistakes  are  of  far  more  serious 
consequence  and  concern  than  deadly  sin.  Outram's  was 
one  of  these;  and,  between  his  teeth,  as  he  performed  the 
duties  of  his  toilet,  he  cursed  that  old  professor,  that 
treacherous  whisky,  those  opiate  cigars,  those  odious 
women,  for  betraying  him  into  what  might  prove  the  most 
serious  trouble  of  his  life.  For,  all  the  long  way  home, 
Mabel,  who  had  recovered  rapidly  from  her  swoon,  was 
ominously  silent,  or  answered  only  in  monosyllables;  and 
he  knew  from  her  calm,  stony  face,  as  she  entered  the 
house,  and  went  straight  to  her  room,  that  she  had  seen 
a  significance  beneath  the  simple  vesture  of  his  story, 
that  was  known  to  no  one  but  himself. 

" those  women,"  he  muttered,  "you  cannot  show 

28S 


THE  PORPHYRY  VASE  289 

them  a  pebble,  but  they  want  to  build  a  mountain  out  of 
it.  With  their  intuitions,  their  inspirations,  their  fancies, 
their  suspicions,  one  dare  not  even  lift  the  corner  of  the 
veil  that  every  man,  from  a  sense  of  duty,  should  keep 
pegged  down  over  his  past  life." 

And  then  he  went  over  in  detail  all  that  he  could  re- 
member of  his  story  and  its  suggestions.  Suddenly  a 
thought  seemed  to  strike  him  with  startling  suddenness. 
He  pulled  back  the  sleeve  of  his  dressing-gown  and  shirt, 
and  looked  long  and  anxiously  at  a  mark  high  up  on  the 
arm,  Hke  the  cicatrice  of  an  ancient  wound,  except  that 
instead  of  being  long  and  narrow,  it  was  a  circular  blotch, 
rimmed  by  a  ridge  of  flesh  and  sunk  down  in  a  pale, 
flabby  skin  in  the  centre.  Then  he  pulled  open  his  shirt- 
front  and  stared  at  his  breast  in  the  glass.  Yes!  There 
were  a  few  healed  wounds,  here  and  there. 

"The  marks  of  Paythan  Triangular  Knives,  we  shall 
say,"  he  murmured.  But  his  face  wore  a  frown  of 
anger  and  vexation.  He  dressed  leisurely,  turning  over 
in  his  mind  a  hundred  things  which  he  might  say  to  his 
wife,  and  debating  earnestly  with  himself  what  would  be 
the  most  politic  course  to  pursue,  —  to  make  light  of  the 
whole  thing,  to  laugh  away  her  anger  or  her  fears,  to 
simulate  anger,  to  fall  back  upon  his  usual  cold,  sneering 
manner,  and  then,  if  the  lady  persevered  in  her  unpleasant 
mood,  to  hiss  defiance  at  her;  or  —  to  make  a  clean  breast 
of  all  and  to  commence  anew.  Alas!  no,  that  cannot  be 
even  thought  of.  It  would  be  sheer  madness.  The  veil 
must  be  kept  pegged  down.  All  men  do  it.  Society 
could  not  otherwise  cohere.  These  little  dissimulations 
are  the  cement  of  good  society.  If  all  men  and  women 
19 


290  LISHEEN 

were  to  lay  bare  their  secrets  to  the  world,  what  a  cata- 
clysm there  would  be!  It  would  be  just  like  a  West 
Indian  earthquake,  when  the  terrified  inhabitants  rush 
out  clothed  in  sheets  and  towels  and  counterpanes. 

"I  shall  He  still  till  the  earthquake  comes,"  he  said. 
"I  cannot  afford  to  appear  in  undress  before  anyone." 

Like  all  men  who  amuse  themselves  by  anticipations, 
he  was  a  Uttle  pleased,  and  yet  disappointed,  to  find  that 
Mabel  had  not  come  down  to  breakfast.  The  Major 
was  alone,  sitting  over  in  his  arm-chair  near  the  fire.  He 
was  now  hardly  able  to  move.  His  lower  extremities  had 
been  turned  into  stone.  He  was  reading  a  letter,  appar- 
ently with  great  interest,  and  not  without  emotion. 

"  Here  is  a  letter  from  Bob,"  he  said,  as  Out  ram  came 
over  and  held  his  hands  to  the  fire.  "You  remember 
Bob?" 

"Of  course.     Maxwell     What  news?" 

"Strange  enough.     This  is  what  he  says": 

Cahercon,  April  30,  18 — . 
Dear  Major:  Here  is  a  letter  as  from  the  dead.  I  have  had  all 
the  experience  of  a  Robinson  Crusoe,  or  Haroun  al  Raschid  for  the 
past  seven  or  eight  months;  and  am  just  now  located  as  above  as 
farm  hand  and  general  overseer  or  time-keeper  over  some  marble 
quarries.  Most  likely  you  would  not  hear  from  me  until  my  term 
of  probation  had  expired;  but  I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me, 
and  without  delay.  You  know  Bernards  —  Colonel  Bernards  ?  He 
lives  down  near  Killiney.  His  agent  is  Steevens,  Maguire  and  Co. 
Well,  I  want  him  to  sell  me  at  once  a  farm,  which  is  on  his  estate 
here,  called  Lisheen,  lately  occupied  by  a  family  named  McAuliffe, 
whom  he  has  evicted,  and  who  are  now  lodged  in  Tralee  gaol.  The 
farm  is  practically  worthless  to  him  now,  as  you  know;  no  one  dare 
take  it.  And  I  shall  give  his  own  sum,  provided  he  sends  me 
promptly  deed  of  sale,  duly  signed^  etc.     I  will  explain  all  after- 


THE   PORPHYRY   VASE  291 

wards,  when  we  meet.  How  is  the  old  enemy  ?  I  hope  he  is  sparing 
you.  I  know  almost  nothing  of  the  outer  world;  and  am  afraid  of 
asking  questions.     All  can  wait. 

Yours  truly, 

Robert  Maxwell. 
Address  as  above,  and  keep  strictly  private. 

"Quixotism  after  Quixotism,"  said  Outram.  "Some 
Kerry  colleen  has  bewitched  him,  or  perhaps  he  is  so 
enamoured  of  his  Robinson  Crusoe  life  he  is  going  to 
abandon  civiHzation  for  ever,  and  take  up  the  farm  at  — 
what  do  you  call  the  place?" 

"And  get  himself  shot,"  said  the  Major.  "Lisheen,  he 
calls  it,  half  mountain,  half  bog,  I  suppose,  Hke  all  Kerry." 

"Well,  well,  wonders  will  never  cease,"  said  Outram, 
going  over  to  the  breakfast  table  and  touching  the  gong. 

"See  is  Mrs.  Outram  coming  down  to  breakfast,"  he 
said  to  the  footman. 

"No,  sir,"  was  the  answer.  "Mrs.  Outram's  maid 
says  that  she  will  breakfast  in  her  room." 

"Very  good.  Tired  after  last  evening,"  he  said  to  the 
Major.  "We  had  a  most  stupid  dinner,  and  I  was  bored 
to  death  by  a  professor  of  something  —  a  short,  dumpy, 
Pickwickian  Httle  fellow,  eyeglass,  seals,  corpulence, 
gaiters,  —  no,  he  was  in  evening  dress  —  that  was  all  the 
difference  between  himself  and  the  immortal.  The  fellow 
wanted  to  prove,"  he  continued,  as  he  poured  out  his 
coffee,  "that  he,  who  was  never  outside  Ireland,  knew 
more  than  an  Anglo-Indian,  Hke  myself,  or  you — " 

"The  —  fool,"  said  the  Major,  who  was  particularly 
sore  on  that  point.     "What  did  you  say?" 

"Say?    Well,    what    can  you   say  to   a   fool?"    said 


292  LISHEEN 

Outram.  "His  contention  was  that,  that  you  can  get 
more  information  out  of  books  than  by  experience,  —  by 
reading  about  a  thing  than  by  seeing  it." 

"And  what  did  you  say?" 

"I  said  all  I  could,"  said  Outram.  "I  exhausted  my 
knowledge  and  poured  it  through  the  sieve  of  the  fellow's 
mind,  and  then  I  remembered  a  wise  old  saying:  'Answer 
a  fool  according  to  his  folly.'" 

"How  was  that?"  asked  the  Major. 

"I  invented  a  story,  or  rather  built  up  a  legend  upon  a 
few  facts,  as  novelists  do,  and  poured  it  through  his  little 
brain,  as  he  sipped  his  whisky  and  water.  He  swallowed 
it  all,  as  easily  as  he  swallowed  his  liquor.  And  he  was 
so  entranced  that  he  induced  me  to  tell  the  same  story 
to  the  ladies  in  the  drawing-room.  I  shouldn't  be  in  the 
least  surprised  if  they  also  believed  it,  and  if  it  were  over 
half  the  drawing-rooms  in  Dubhn  in  a  week." 

"You  must  tell  me  that  this  evening  after  dinner," 
said  the  Major.  "Or  perhaps  Mabel  will  tell  me  all 
about  it  at  lunch." 

"Yes,  Mabel  will  tell  it  better  than  I,  She  quite 
understands  that  it  was  improvised  for  the  occasion  —  a 
Httle  fact,  a  lot  of  fiction  like  all  romances." 

"You're  going  to  the  city?"  asked  the  Major. 

"Ye-es,"  said  Outram. 

"Would  you  mind  calling  at  Steeven's  and  Maguire's, 
and  say  I  should  Hke  to  see  a  representative  of  the  firm 
to-day,  if  possible?" 

"Yes,  certainly.  They  are  agents  in  one  of  those  streets 
off  Dame  Street,  I  believe?" 

"Yes,  quite  so.     How  do  you  know  them?" 


THE  PORPHYRY  VASE  293 

"Little  business  matters.  I  can  send  them  a  message, 
of  course,  in  case  I  should  not  be  able  to  call." 

"Yes.  But  it  is  urgent.  It  is  all  about  Bob's  letter 
and  his  commission.  And  you  see  it  must  be  done  at 
once." 

"Of  course.  I'll  see  to  it.  What  is  his  address,  by 
the  way?" 

"Cahercon,  Co.  Kerry." 

"Very  good.  I  hope  Mabel  will  be  able  to  come  down 
early.     Nothing  else  in  town?" 

"Nothmg,"  repHed  the  Major. 

Mabel  came  do\Mi  to  lunch.  She  looked  so  pale,  so 
woebegone,  so  distressed,  that  the  Major  was  startled. 
She  took  her  seat  wearily  at  the  table,  but  ate  nothing. 
The  Major  looked  at  her  with  anxious  eyes.  He  was  not 
so  entirely  engrossed  with  his  gout  as  to  fail  to  see  for 
some  time  past  that  his  daughter  was  not  happy.  No 
complaint  ever  passed  her  lips,  but  she  went  about  the 
house  looking  after  her  household  duties,  dressed,  drove 
out  in  her  carriage,  dressed  for  balls  and  dinners,  went  to 
levees,  but  in  such  a  mechanical  and  spiritless  way,  so 
dull,  so  cold,  so  unemotional,  that  her  father  saw  clearly 
there  was  something  wrong,  but  he  forebore  asking 
questions,  for  he  dreaded  revelations. 

"She  was  naturally  cold  and  reserved,"  he  thought, 
"her  mother's  disposition,  —  but  this  new  manner  or 
disposition  was  something  more." 

But  this  afternoon  her  features  were  dragged  and  dis- 
torted as  by  some  acute  pain,  and  there  was  cut  deeply 
upon  them  the  sad  sculpturing  of  sorrow  and  of  woe. 


294  LISHEEN 

She  turned  aside  from  the  table,  drew  a  chair  opposite 
the  fire,  and  with  hands  folded  on  her  lap  continued 
gazing  in  silence  at  the  jets  of  flame  that  burst  from  the 
burning  coal.  The  Major  was  too  deeply  impressed  to 
say  anything.  He  shifted  uneasily  in  the  arm-chair  and 
was  silent.  Then  he  bethought  him  of  Bob  Maxwell's 
letter,  and  fumbHng  for  it,  he  handed  it  to  her.  She 
merely  glanced  at  the  superscription  and  handed  it  back. 
Then  she  said: 

"Father,  could  we  —  I  mean,  you  and  I  —  go  away 
somewhere?" 

"Go  away?"  echoed  the  Major.  "Not  now,  Mabel, 
not  in  the  height  of  the  season  when  no  one  leaves  town." 

"Couldn't  we  sell  out  this  place  and  furniture  and  go 
abroad  —  to  Spain,  to  the  Riviera,  to  Algiers,  anywhere?" 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Mab?"  the  Major  said. 
"You're  not  well!" 

She  burst  into  passionate  weeping,  and  kneeling  on  the 
hearthrug  by  her  father's  feet,  she  put  her  hand  on  his 
hand  and  moaned: 

"Well?  I'm  too  well,  God  help  me!  If  only  I  were  ill 
enough  to  die  and  be  at  rest!" 

"Now,  now,  Mab,"  said  her  father.  "This  is  non- 
sense, or  what  is  worse,  hysteria,  and  you  know  you  must 
not  give  way  to  that.  You're  too  young  and  too  newly 
married  to  yield  to  such  weakness." 

"Ah,  my  God,  if  I  had  never  married,"  she  moaned 
piteously.  "If  only  I  had  the  sense  to  remain  with  you, 
and  nurse  you  to  old  age  and  the  end !  Oh !  what  madness 
possesses  girls  that  they  do  not  know  their  happiness  and 
must  fling  it  away!" 


THE   PORPHYRY  VASE  295 

And  she  wept  bitterly. 

"Come,  now,  Mab,"  said  her  father.  "This  won't  do. 
What  has  come  between  you  and  Ralph  ?  I  know  you're 
not  happy  together.  But  that  often  happens.  By  the 
way,  what  was  the  story  he  told  last  night  at  dinner? 
Come,  tell  it  all  to  me.  Ralph  said  you  could  tell  it 
better  than  he." 

"Did  he  tell  you  that,  father?"  she  cried,  with  eyes 
flashing  through  her  tears. 

"He  did.  It  was  his  last  word  this  morning  as  he  was 
going  to  the  city.  He  said  he  concocted  a  story  last 
night  to  please  some  old  duffer  of  a  professor.  It  was  all 
fancy,  or  nearly  so.  But  he  says  it  will  probably  be  all 
over  gossipy  Dubhn  before  a  week." 

"What  a  har!  What  a  hypocrite!"  she  murmured. 
"It  was  his  own  histoiy  he  told.  Men  must  make  a 
confession  of  their  lives  sometimes;  and  he  was  excited 
with  drink.  Did  you  suspect  that-  he  was  ever  addicted 
to  drink,  poor  old  Pap?" 

"I  did.  God  forgive  me.  I  knew  it,"  said  the  Major, 
with  humble  sorrow. 

The  two  sat  silent  for  a  long  time  watching  the  flicker- 
ing fire,  and  busy  with  their  own  thoughts. 

"Ah!  if  you  had  only  married  Bob  —  poor  Bob!"  said 
the  Major  at  length. 

But  she  put  her  hand  over  his  mouth  and  stopped  him. 
Then  after  another  pause  she  rose  up  and  left  the  room. 
As  she  went  upstairs  to  her  room,  wearily  and  with  heavy 
steps,  catching  at  the  balustrade  to  help  her,  she  paused 
for  a  moment  beneath  a  lobby  window  of  coloured  glass. 
Here  on  a  pedestal  was  the  porphyry  vase  which  had 


296  LISHEEN 

been  sent  by  an  unknown  hand  from  India  with  the 
Sanscrit  letter  which  her  husband  refused  to  interpret. 
She  had  passed  it  a  hundred  times  before  without  a 
thought,  except  the  unconscious  admiration  of  its  perfect 
and  polishd  beauty.  Now  she  stood  still  and  studied  it. 
The  great  broad  cavity  shone  beneath  the  coloured  glass 
of  the  window,  here  crimson,  here  blue  and  yellow.  She 
thought  she  would  give  a  good  deal  to  know  its  history 
—  who  made  it,  whence  it  came.  Then  her  husband's 
words  about  the  Uttle  Hindoo  girl  came  back  to  her  and 
she  remembered,  with  a  kind  of  vague  horror,  that  he  said 
she  never  turned  out  any  work  of  art  from  her  hands, 
except  with  some  symbol,  or  symboHc  meaning,  which 
sooner  or  later  would  be  revealed.  She  argued  then  — 
this  vase  is  a  symbol  —  but  of  what  ?  She  couldn't  think. 
But  as  she  watched  it,  she  thought  she  saw  the  coils  of 
the  green  snake,  knotted  at  the  bottom  of  the  vase,  shiver 
and  stir,  and  she  shrank  back  in  terror.  It  was  pure 
imagination,  of  course.  But  she  took  up  a  heavy  paper- 
weight that  lay  on  the  table,  —  a  five-pound  solid  shell 
fixed  in  mahogany,  which  her  father  had  brought  home 
from  India,  —  and  poising  it  in  her  hand  as  in  self-de- 
fence, she  looked  again.  Whether  her  imagination,  strung 
by  sleeplessness  and  worry,  was  over-excited,  or  whether 
the  hghts  that  flickered  and  faded  from  the  window  de- 
ceived her,  she  thought  she  saw  the  hideous  green  reptile 
stirring  again,  and  in  a  paroxysm  of  horror  she  brought 
down  the  heavy  paper-weight  with  all  her  force  upon  the 
snake.  The  green  stone  crumbled  as  if  it  were  glass, 
and  the  porphyry  vase  parted  in  two,  as  if  cut  by  a  knife. 
It  did  not  fall  to  the  ground,  but  remained  on  the  pedes- 


THE  PORPHYRY  VASE  297 

tal,  the  edges,  clean-cut,  now  an  inch  apart,  and  she  saw 
that  the  thickness  of  the  beautiful  vase  graduated  from 
three  or  four  inches  at  the  foot  to  an  inch  in  the  centre,  and 
then  widened  out  to  greater  thickness,  where  the  edge  of 
the  vase  Upped  over. 

Horrified  at  what  she  had  done,  she  still  felt  a  strange 
thrill  of  exultation,  as  if  the  breaking  of  that  vessel  sym- 
bolized some  decisive  turn  of  fate  for  her.  "At  least," 
she  thought,  "it  means  a  change,  a  rupture  of  present 
relations,  a  new  life,  and  that  is  a  great  gain." 

She  went  to  her  room  and  sat  down  to  think.  Leaning 
her  weary  head  on  her  hand,  she  looked  out  through  the 
window  where  the  dreary  sun  was  shivering  down  the 
west  amidst  banks  of  gray,  ashen  clouds.  She  began  to 
review  her  married  life,  —  her  first  feehngs  of  repulsion 
to  her  husband  which  broke  on  her  ambitious  schemes 
and  made  them  seem  a  sacrilege,  committed  in  what  should 
be  the  home  and  sanctuary  of  pure,  unselfish  love;  her 
surprise,  growing  rapidly  to  indignation,  when  she  dis- 
covered, at  first  unwilHngly,  then  with  growing  feelings  of 
disgust,  her  husband's  real  character;  her  attempts  at 
secrecy,  keeping  the  hd  firmly  down  on  the  terrible  secrets 
of  her  wifehood,  her  forced  dissimulations  in  society,  her 
feeble  efforts  to  maintain  her  dignity  at  home,  the  revela- 
tion that  she  had  made  the  one  great  blunder  of  a  woman's 
existence,  irreparable,  except  by  the  merciful  finger  of 
Death  —  all  came  up,  to  weigh  her  to  the  earth  in  re- 
morse and  sorrow.  The  cold  setting  sun  peeped  into  no 
more  dismal  scene  than  the  boudoir  of  that   beautiful 

girl. 
The  sun  went  down.    The  twilight  fell.    Then  the 


298  LISHEEN 

night.  The  shadows  darkened  round  her  and  wrapped 
her  up  in  their  gloom.  But  she  sat  motionless,  staring 
into  the  night,  until  she  heard  the  footstep  on  the  stair 
that  she  knew  to  be  her  husband's;  and  she  felt  that  the 
great  crisis  in  her  life  was  at  hand. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


FATHER   COSGROVE'S   DILEMMA 


There  was  one  veiy  troubled  soul  in  and  around 
Lisheen  during  these  critical  days.  Father  Cosgrove  was 
one  of  those  strange  spirits  who  could  bear  with  the  most 
perfect  equanimity  his  own  troubles,  but  was  weighed  to 
the  ground  with  the  thought  of  the  sufferings  of  others. 
Humiliations  he  had  patiently  borne,  poverty  was  his 
chosen  lot  in  Ufe,  time  could  have  no  fate  in  store  for  him 
which  he  dreaded,  and  therefore,  so  far  as  himself  was 
concerned,  he  had  neither  anxiety,  apprehension,  or  re- 
morse. But,  Hke  a  true  priest,  he  bore  the  infirmities  of 
others  and  carried  their  sorrows.    .- 

The  eviction  at  Lisheen  was  a  sore  trial  to  the  heart  of 
this  tender  priest.  He  had  heard  nothing  about  it  until 
the  following  day.  And  then  he  and  his  pastor  did  all 
in  their  power  to  alleviate  the  misery  of  this  little  unhappy 
portion  of  their  flock.  But  this  was  not  his  chief  trouble. 
Strange  to  say,  he  was  more  deeply  concerned  about 
Brandon  Hall  than  Lisheen,  more  apprehensive  of  the 
future  that  lay  before  Hugh  Hamberton  than  that  which 
seemed  already  to  have  created  itself  for  Owen  McAuhffe 
and  his  family. 

He  had  conceived  a  strange  hking  for  Hamberton. 
Beneath  all  the  cynicism  of  the  latter  he  had  discerned 
indications  of  a  certain  nobility  of  character  which  he 

299 


300  LISHEEN 

knew  to  be  rare  amongst  men.  When  men  rage  against 
their  kind  it  is  generally  from  disappointed  hopes,  or 
cruel  disillusion.  The  man  that  can  be  patient  with 
humanity  is  a  saint,  as  we  have  already  said,  or  one  who 
has  accepted  its  baseness  as  a  part  of  the  finite  condition 
of  things.  Hamberton's  verdict  on  his  race  was:  "You 
are  wholly  and  altogether  beneath  contempt;  but,  such  as 
you  are,  as  I  have  not  the  discredit  of  your  creation,  I 
must  make  the  best  I  can  even  of  you.  And  then,"  he 
might  have  added,  and  this  was  the  one  thought  that  was 
perpetually  harassing  the  mind  of  his  friend.  Father 
Cosgrove,  "I  shall  part  company  with  you  as  swiftly  as 
I  may.     I  cannot  meet  worse  whithersoever  I  go." 

Now,  there  was  but  one  tie,  one  condition  that  seemed 
to  bind  him  to  earth,  and  so  far  as  Father  Cosgrove  could 
see,  that  condition  would  soon  end.  For  he  seemed  to 
understand  the  moment  that  Maxwell  and  Claire  Moulton 
met,  that  they  were  destined  for  each  other.  It  was  not 
foresight,  nor  calculation,  nor  worldly  wisdom,  but  some 
intuition,  belonging  to  such  delicate  and  detached  souls, 
that  created  the  presentiment  that  in  this  obscure  tramp 
was  to  be  found  the  chief  actor  in  the  future  destinies  of 
Brandon  Hall.  And  when  a  little  later  on  he  found  that 
by  a  singular  chain  of  circumstances  Maxwell  was  abso- 
lutely estabhshed  in  a  position  of  confidence  under  Ham- 
berton,  nay,  was  a  respected  visitor  at  the  Hall,  and  had 
been  seen  with  Miss  Moulton  on  her  round  of  visits,  on 
the  sea-beach,  or  out  at  sea,  he  became  quite  distressed, 
and  with  the  worldly  imprudence  that  characterizes  such 
minds,  he  thought  it  time  to  interfere.  He  had  not  the 
slightest  prejudice  against  Maxwell,  he  even  liked  him, 


FATHER  COSGROVE'S  DILEMMA 


301 


but  Maxwell  had  become  to  his  imagination  the  evil 
genius  of  the  family,  and  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  fight  against 
what  he  knew  to  be  inexorable  Fate. 

"I  want  to  say  something  very  particular  —  very  par- 
ticular to  you,"  he  said  one  day  to  Hamberton,  closing 
the  remark  with  that  curious  gesture  he  had  of  waving 
one  hand  in  the  air. 

"By  all  means,"  said  Hamberton. 

"It's  a  private  matter  —  rather  a  family  affair,"  said 
the  priest,  nerv^ously. 

"Never  mind.  Go  ahead,"  said  Hamberton,  who 
already  guessed  what  was  in  the  good  priest's  mind. 

"I  think  —  I  am  almost  sure  —  I  ought  to  tell  you  — 
there  is  a  growing  intimacy  between  Miss  Moulton  and 
your  new  steward,  and  you  know  it  is  always  well  to  stop 
these  things  in  the  beginning." 

"Quite  right.  That  is,  if  they  ought  to  be  stopped  at 
all." 

"But,"  said  the  old  priest,  anxiously,  "you  do  not 
contemplate  the  possibihty  of  marriage  between  Maxwell 
and  your  ward?" 

"Why  not?"  said  Hamberton. 

"Of  course,  of  course,  of  course,  why  not,  why  not?" 
said  the  old  man.     "But  you  know  nothing  about  him." 

"No.  Certainly  not.  So  much  the  better,"  said  the 
cynical  Hamberton.  "If  I  did  I  should  probably  have 
never  brought  him  here,  or  dismissed  him  summarily.  It 
is  only  the  men  you  don't  know  whom  you  can  trust." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  the  old  priest.  "I'm  very 
stupid.  I  shouldn't  have  spoken  —  I  shouldn't  have 
spoken." 


302  LISHEEN 

"Not  the  slightest  harm  done,  my  dear  friend,"  said 
Hamberton,  gaily.  "What  I  meant  was,  that  I  have  never 
met  a  man  yet  (except  yourself)  who  improved  on  ac- 
quaintance. It  is  the  unknown  I  trust,  because  in  the 
case  of  the  unknown  you  can  say.  This  fellow  may  he  a 
scoundrel;  in  the  case  of  those  who  are  known  to  you 
you  say.  This  fellow  is  a  scoundrel.  Now,  I  let  things  go 
on  between  my  ward  and  Maxwell,  because  I  haven't  yet 
found  him  a  rascal.     I  probably  shall,  and  then  — " 

"And  then  it  will  be  too  late — too  late!"  said  the  priest. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Hamberton.  "Claire  will  make  the 
discovery  simultaneously,  and  we  shall  cashier  him." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"That  is  not  my  experience  of  such  things,"  he  said. 
"Nay,  the  greater  the  —  the  —  offender,  the  more  will  a 
girl  cling  to  him." 

"Claire  is  made  of  other  metal,"  said  Hamberton. 
"  But  make  your  mind  easy,  my  dear  friend.  I  know  Claire 
well.  She  will  only  marry  a  hero — someone  who  at  least 
has  shown  himself  made  of  truer  metal  than  passes  in  or- 
dinary currency.  She  won't  marry  a  divorce,  but  she  won't 
marry  a  man  who  cannot  divorce  himself  from  himself." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  the  old  priest.  "I  am  quite 
stupid  about  these  things.  I  shouldn't  have  interfered. 
I  meant  well." 

"I  know  you  did,"  said  the  gruff  man  of  the  world, 
almost  with  affection.  "You  don't  want  to  see  any 
master  in  Brandon  Hall,  except  its  present  owner." 

"  Not  as  long  as  I  live,"  said  the  priest,  courteously  and 
humbly.  "When  I  die,  well  then  —  well  then — "  and 
he  waved  his  hand  in  the  air. 


FATHER   COSGROVE'S  DILEMMA 


303 


"Then  I  suppose  you  will  become  my  Damon  —  my 
Guardian- Angel,"  said  Hamberton.  "You  will  watch 
me  night  and  day,  and  yet  I  shall  elude  your  vigilance. 
And  why?  Because  I  have  a  right  to  go  out  of  the  world, 
even  if  I  were  not  consulted  about  coming  into  it.  When 
I  am  tired,  I  shall  He  down  like  a  sick  child  to  rest,  as 
some  poet  has  it.  I  shall  sleep  on  the  bosom  of  Mother 
Earth,  and,  for  the  first  time,  know  what  is  meant  by 
pax  et  tranquillitas  magna!" 

"You  will  not  know  peace,"  said  the  priest,  "for  you 
cannot  go  out  of  Hfe  alone,  and  there  is  an  Avenger  beyond 
the  grave." 

"Cannot  go  out  of  life  alone?"  echoed  Hamberton. 
"Oh!  but  I  shall.  And  as  for  the  rest,  doesn't  your  great 
poet  put  Cato  in  Purgatory?" 

"I  don't  know!  I  don't  know!"  said  the  priest.  "I 
should  not  discuss  these  things.  But  the  good  God  will 
guide  you,  and  prevent  you.  You  shall  see  his  hand 
when  he  chooses  to  reveal  it." 

"Well,  well,  say  no  more,"  said  Hamberton.  "But 
make  your  mind  at  rest  about  Claire.  Hers  is  a  strong 
nature;  she  cannot  be  led,  or  deceived." 

Although  Hamberton  threw  lightly  aside  the  forebodings 
of  Father  Cosgrove,  he  was  nevertheless  ver}^  much  disqui- 
eted by  what  he  had  heard.  He  Hved  only  for  this  young 
girl,  and  his  one  ambition  in  life  was  to  see  her  married 
to  some  one  to  whom  she  could  look  up  with  love  and 
veneration.  He  was  too  much  of  a  c)Tiic  to  believe  that 
such  sanguine  anticipations  could  be  realized  —  least  of 
all  in  that  remote  comer  amongst  rude  peasants  and 
fishermen.     But,  like  all  unbelievei-s,  there  was  a  strong 


304  LISHEEN 

tinge  of  superstition  in  his  character.  He  was  a  firm 
believer  in  the  existence  of  those  mysterious  currents  of 
being  that  rush  together  from  remotest  poles,  and  seem 
to  converge  without  any  guidance  but  that  of  Fate.  And 
when  this  young  fellow,  Maxwell,  came  within  his  ken, 
shrouded  in  mystery,  his  character  but  half  revealed  and 
yet  showing  signs  of  gentle  birth  and  breeding,  and  when 
he  saw  that  there  was  a  certain  attraction  there  for  his 
ward,  whose  feelings  had  been  hitherto  undisturbed  by 
contact  with  the  world  of  men,  he  began  to  think  that 
he  was  watching  the  prologue  to  some  drama,  which 
might  eventuate  in  circumstances  more  tragic  than  agree- 
able. 

He  became  suddenly  aware,  as  he  walked,  with  head 
stooped  and  slow  steps,  down  towards  the  beach,  of  the 
presence  of  a  stranger.  Hamberton  disliked  strangers. 
He  had  a  decided  objection  to  forming  new  acquaintances. 
Fresh  faces,  fresh  trouble,  he  thought.  The  stranger 
accosted  him. 

"Mr.  Hamberton,  I  presume?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hamberton,  brusquely.  "What  may  be 
your  business?" 

"It  is  very  brief,"  said  the  stranger.  "You  have  a  man 
in  your  employment  named  Maxwell?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hamberton.     "What  of  him?" 

"I  should  like  to  know  his  history,"  said  the  stranger. 
"Where  he  comes  from,  and  his  antecedents?" 

"Then  why  the  devil  don't  you  ask  himself?"  said 
Hamberton,  nettled  at  the  sudden  possibilities  that  seemed 
to  loom  up  before  him. 

"I  am  a  police  officer,"  said  the  man.     "I  thought  to 


FATHER  COSGROVE'S  DILEMMA  305 

avoid  all  unpleasantness  by  asking  you  to  clear  up  one 
or  two  things." 

''You're  on  Maxwell's  track,  then?"  said  Hamberton, 
without  apology.     "In  a  word,  he's  wanted?^' 

"Not  quite  that,"  said  the  officer.  "But  our  suspicions 
have  been  aroused  in  a  singular  manner,  and  we  want  to 
know  something  about  him.  If  you  can  give  me  the 
desired  information  we  need  proceed  no  further  and  we 
shall  spare  him  some  pain." 

Hamberton  paused  for  a  moment.     Then  he  said : 

"Come  along  here  and  we  can  talk  as  we  proceed. 
What  now  do  you  want  to  know." 

"First,"  said  the  officer,  "where  this  man  comes  from, 
his  former  occupation,  and  the  reason  he  has  adopted  this 
mode  of  hfe." 

"He  came  here  from  Lisheen,"  said  Hamberton.  "He 
was  labourer  there  with  a  family  named  McAuHflFe.  He 
has  come  here  at  my  invitation  to  act  as  steward  or  over- 
seer on  my  works." 

"We  are  quite  aware  of  all  that,"  said  the  officer. 
"But  his  life  previous  to  his  coming  to  Lisheen?" 

"Of  that  I  know  absolutely  nothing,"  said  Hamberton. 
"You  must  question  himself." 

And  he  turned  away. 

As  if  on  second  thoughts,  however,  he  followed  the 
officer,  and  said: 

"What  do  you  seek  Maxwell  for?  Is  he  suspected  of 
crime?" 

"I'm  not  at  liberty  to  say,"  answered  the  officer.  "It 
is  possible  that  it  may  be  serious,  or  that  we  may  make  a 
grave  mistake." 


3o6  LISHEEN 

"Very  possible,  indeed,"  said  Hamberton,  turning 
away. 

Nevertheless  he  was  grievously  troubled.  It  was  be- 
coming pretty  clear  that  his  ward  was  not  altogether 
insensible  to  the  strange  attraction  that  hung  around  his 
steward,  for  though  the  latter  never  put  himself  forward, 
nor  sought  his  own  society,  nor  that  of  Miss  Moulton, 
this  very  restraint  argued  in  his  favour.  It  was  that 
reticence  of  conduct  that  belongs  to  superior  souls. 
Hamberton  recognised  it,  and  was  himself  drawn  towards 
Maxwell,  with  whom  he  would  have  been  even  more 
cordial,  but  for  that  cynical  distrust  with  which  he  re- 
garded all  men.  He  thought  it  his  duty,  however,  under 
these  circumstances  to  speak  to  his  ward. 

"Our  friend,  Maxwell,"  he  said  to  her  in  the  afternoon 
of  the  day  on  which  he  was  questioned  by  the  poUce 
officer,  "is  a  puzzle,  a  mystery,  and  strange  to  say,  our 
further  acquaintance  with  him  seems  to  throw  no  light 
upon  his  previous  history." 

She  flushed  at  once,  and  he  did  not  fail  to  notice  it. 

"Most  men,"  he  went  on,  "become  communicative  as 
you  grow  acquainted  with  them  and  give  them  your 
confidence,  but  Maxwell  seems  to  gather  himself  more 
and  more  closely  within  the  involutions  of  his  cell." 

"  Perhaps,  like  the  needy  knife-grinder,  he  has  no  story 
to  tell,"  said  Claire. 

"Well,  at  least  we  might  know  whence  he  came,  and 
what  he  was  before  he  settled  down  at  Lisheen.  I  think 
we  agree  that  he  is  not  peasant-bom  or  bred." 

"That  is  quite  manifest,"  said  his  ward.  "But  I 
hardly  think  we  would  be  justified  in  probing  too  closely 


FATHER  COSGROVE'S  DILEMMA 


307 


into  his  former  life.  He  was  employed  out  of  sheer 
benevolence  by  you,  uncle,  and  if  we  made  no  condition 
then  we  should  make  none  now." 

"True,  little  woman,"  he  said.  "But,  Claire  dearest, 
take  care!  Take  care!  The  very  mystery  surrounding 
these  men  is  sometimes  attractive." 

"Never  fear,  uncle,"  she  replied.  "I  shall  keep  watch 
and  ward  over  the  enemy." 

"You  believe  in  Maxwell  then?"  he  said.  "I  shall  not 
use  a  stronger  word." 

"Yes,"  she  said  firmly.  "At  least  I  believe  he  is  a 
strictly  honourable  man!" 

"How  then  do  you  account  for  his  strange  interference 
against  these  poor  people  at  Lisheen  the  day  of  their 
eviction  ?  I  could  have  kept  them  in  their  Httle  home  but 
for  him." 

"Yes.  But  you  believed  then,  when  he  spoke  to  you 
and  the  sheriff,  that  he  had  no  ill  motive,  and  that  he 
would  make  all  right." 

"I  did.  I  don't  understand  it;  but  I  believed  then,  and 
I  bcheve  now,  that  he  meant  well." 

"So  do  I." 

"Father  Cosgrove  doesn't  hke  him." 

"Priests  never  understand  the  sheep  of  another 
flock." 

"Perhaps  so.     But,  Claire." 

"Yes." 

"Be  prepared  for  a  surprise.  By  the  way,  when  do 
these  Shakespearian  recitations  come  off?" 

"On  Thursday  evening." 

"And  your  parts?" 


3o8  LISHEEN 

"Lady  Macbeth  and  Desdemona." 

"And  Maxwell  is  Macbeth  and  Othello,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes.     That's  the  programme." 

"Not  a  good  one  by  any  means,"  said  Hamberton, 
relaxing  into  his  old  bitter  cynicism  and  forgetting  his 
momentary  anxiety  about  Maxwell.  "A  thoroughly  bad 
selection,  I  should  say.  Othello  was  an  impossible  fool, 
and  Desdemona  an  impossible  ninny.  No  woman  in  the 
world  would  have  allowed  herself  to  be  murdered  in  that 
lamb-like  way  without  even  an  effort  to  save  herself, 
lago  —  true  to  nature,  human  nature  at  its  worst,  almost. 
But  why  didn't  you  select  Shakespeare's  two  greatest 
plays  —  Lear  and  Timon  ?  There  he  held  the  mirror  up 
to  nature  indeed.  Mark  you,  of  Lear's  three  daughters, 
two  were  devils.  Quite  correct.  In  his  dethronement 
and  madness  the  mighty  king  had  but  two  followers  —  a 
madman  and  a  fool.  Right  again.  And  Timon!  Mag- 
nificent Timon!  'Old  Timon  with  the  noble  heart,  that 
strongly  loathing,  greatly  broke!'  Strongly  loathing! 
Not  half  enough.  No  utter  hatred,  dishke,  contempt, 
loathing  could  be  half  strong  enough  for  these  base  and 
vile  sycophants  that  battened  on  him  in  his  prosperity 
and  abandoned  him  when  he  fell  —  fell  through  his  own 
d — d  benevolence.  He  should  have  poisoned  these 
wretches  at  his  banquet,  and  then  stood  calmly  over 
them,  and  watched  their  agonizing  deaths.  Hot  water 
in  their  plates?  No,  that  was  weak,  WilHam,  with  your 
permission.  Diluted  strychnine,  or  cyanide  of  potassium, 
would  have  been  better.  But  that  'Uncover,  dogs,  and 
lap!'  is  the  noblest  half-line  in  all  human  hterature. 
Couldn't  we  have   it,   Claire?     Could   Maxwell  do  it? 


FATHER  COSGROVE'S  DILEMMA  309 

There  is  no  part  for  ladies  in  Timon,  but  could  Maxwell 
do  that,  do  you  think?" 

'"Tis  too  late  now,  uncle,"  she  said.  "Some  other 
time." 

"Yes,  if  there  shall  be  another  time." 

He  stopped  and  paced  up  and  down  his  hbrar\',  musing. 
Then  he  suddenly  said : 

"N'imporie!  If  the  fellow  is  a  scoundrel,  let  him  have 
his  deserts.  Let  every  miscreant  have  his  halter,  say  I, 
or  what  else  is  the  devil  for?  But  Claire,  Claire,"  he  said, 
coming  over  and  stroking  her  hair  tenderly,"  take  care, 
won't  you  ?  I  cannot  have  you  thrown  away,  Uttle  woman. 
Watch  over  the  citadel,  won't  you?  Woman's  heart  is 
such  a  traitor." 

"Never  fear  for  me,  uncle,"  she  said  gaily.  "I  do  not 
care  so  much  for  Maxwell  but  that  I  could  cut  out  his 
image  if  he  proves  unworthy." 

"Well  and  bravely  said,"  cried" Hamberton.  "Every 
woman  should  have  that  fortitude,  and  half  the  evils  of 
life  would  be  spared.  And,  if  all  comes  right,  if  Maxwell 
is,  as  you  believe,  and  I  think,  a  good  fellow,  what  then?" 

"Well  then,"  said  Claire,  "I  shall  send  him  to  you." 

Hamberton  laughed.     And  then  muttering: 

"This  is  too  sudden!  Ask  papa!"  he  turned  away. 
He  had  jested  gaily,  but  his  heart  was  heavy. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


SHAKESPEARIAN  RECITALS 


If  Father  Cosgrove  was  grievously  troubled  these  days 
about  the  fate  which  hung  over  Brandon  Hall,  and  the 
strangers  who  had  become  so  dear  to  him,  the  mysterious 
agent,  as  he  deemed  it,  of  that  Fate  was  no  less  grievously 
tormented. 

Maxwell  had  heard  from  the  old  Major,  in  reply  to  his 
letter  about  Lisheen.  The  business  details  were  easily 
settled.  Colonel  Bernards  was  only  too  glad  to  get  such 
a  troublesome  place  off  his  hands,  and  he  sold  his  entire 
and  unencumbered  interest  in  it  to  Maxwell  for  three 
hundred  pounds.  But  here  arose  the  difficulty.  How 
now  could  he  carry  out  his  hidden  design  not  only  to  re- 
store these  poor  people  to  their  home,  but  to  make  that 
home  a  wonder  and  a  surprise  to  them  and  their  neigh- 
bours for  ever  ?  He  had  become  deeply  attached  to  them, 
and  many  a  night  he  remained  awake,  planning  a  new 
farm-house,  new  furniture,  new  bams,  fences  perfect, 
gates  of  the  most  modem  pattem,  etc.  He  frequently 
pictured  to  himself  (and  found  intense  pleasure  in  the 
fancy)  the  wonder,  the  delight  of  these  poor  people,  when 
on  emerging  from  prison,  and  expecting  only  to  see  a 
mined  house  and  a  desolate  farm  before  them,  they  would 
find  themselves  reinstated  in  a  place  that  would  be  abso- 
lutely luxurious  by  comparison.     But  how  could  he  do  it  ? 

310 


SHAKESPEARIAN  RECITALS  311 

He  dared  not  show  himseK  at  Lisheen.  The  story  of  his 
supposed  treacher}'  to  the  McAuliffes  had  gone  far  and 
wide,  and  he  would  risk  his  Ufe  if  he  were  seen  about 
the  place.  He  could  have  written  to  his  agent,  but  he 
didn't  care  just  yet  to  reveal  his  position,  except  where 
his  secret  could  be  kept.  He  thought  of  consulting 
Hamberton,  but  he  shrank  as  yet  from  the  revelation. 
And,  let  it  be  said,  he  wished  to  win  Claire  Moulton  for 
his  wife  without  the  adventitious  help  that  would  arise 
from  a  knowledge  of  his  real  position.  Yet,  time  was 
rushing  by.  In  three  months  the  McAuHffes  would  be 
released  from  prison,  and  then  —  his  beautiful  castle 
would  topple  over  and  fall. 

The  good  old  Major,  too,  had  hinted  rather  brusquely 
that  Mabel  was  not  happy.  Even  his  old,  blind  eyes  had 
seen  it.  And  he  said  little  things,  expressed  httle  regrets, 
with  here  and  there  an  "Alas I"  and  an  "If,"  that  signified 
much.  Was  Maxwell  sorry  and  sympathetic?  Hardly. 
For  human  pride  is  flattered  when  those  who  have  spumed 
us  have  had  reason  to  regret  what  they  have  done.  Some- 
times he  would  feel  a  little  savage  against  the  IMajor, 
against  Mabel,  but  most  of  all  against  Outram,  whom 
he  had  always  disliked. 

"The  cad,"  he  would  mutter  between  his  teeth,  "I 
knew  he  would  break  her  heart.  Poor  Mab!  Queen 
Mab!" 

He  was  in  one  of  these  moods  when  he  received  a  letter 
from  Outram  demanding  back  the  talisman  —  the  ring 
with  the  strange  intaglio,  which  was  to  be  the  pledge,  and 
in  some  wise  the  guerdon,  of  Maxwell's  banishment. 
Outram  contended  that  as  Maxwell  had  not  kept  his 


312  LISHEEN 

engagement  to  live  as  a  farm  labourer  for  twelve  months, 
he  should  now  resign  the  talisman  and  confess  himself 
defeated  in  his  Quixotic  scheme.  To  this  Maxwell  sent 
the  following  reply: 

Cahercon,  April  30,  18 — . 

Dear  Outram:  I  beg  to  acknowledge  receipt  of  your  letter. 
I  thought  that  Major  Willoughby  would  have  kept  my  present 
position  and  incognito  secret,  particularly  from  you.  But  quite 
possibly,  the  many  troubles,  domestic  and  others,  that  are  now 
pressing  on  the  Major's  mind,  and  disturbing  his  peace,  may  have 
rendered  him  forgetful  for  the  moment  of  the  prudence  that  should 
have  guarded  my  secret,  especially  from  you.  You  are  quite  mis- 
taken in  supposing  that  I  have  not  kept  my  engagement.  I  have 
had  some  grievous  hardships,  but  I  have  received  much  illumina- 
tion also;  and  I  consider  myself  much  a  better  man  than  when  last 
I  sat  in  your  company  in  a  Dublin  club.  I  am  still  employed 
here  as  overseer  and  time-keeper,  but  also  as  farm-servant  and 
labourer.  I  have  served  six  months  in  much  the  same  capacity, 
but  under  lower  and  more  menial  conditions.  I  have  suffered 
much,  but  made  no  mistake;  and  shall  continue  my  probation  for 
a  better  life  until  the  term  agreed  upon  has  expired.  And  until 
then,  I  shall  retain  the  bauble  you  were  good  enough  to  lend  me. 
The  Gods  will  protect  you. 

Yours  truly, 

Robert  Maxwell. 

A  letter  which  made  Ralph  Outram  very  uneasy.  Cold 
and  brutal  and  unfeeling,  he  felt  the  web  of  Fate  closing 
around  him;  and  with  the  intense  superstitions  that  haunt 
such  minds,  he  placed  a  hope  in  that  httle  ring  and  its 
intaglio. 

The  night  for  the  Shakespearian  recitals  came  round 
rapidly.     Maxwell  had  drilled  some  young  village  lads  to 


SHAKESPEARIAN  RECITALS 


313 


take  subordinate  parts  in  the  entertainment,  but  he  re- 
served the  main  characters  for  Claire  Moulton  and  him- 
self. There  were  many  rehearsals,  held  in  the  loft  over 
the  marble  stores,  but  now  transformed  into  a  theatre 
with  lights,  and  an  improvised  stage,  drop  curtains,  side 
scenes  and  all.  The  more  Claire  Moulton  saw  of  him 
during  these  rehearsals,  although  she  studied  him  closely 
under  the  light  of  a  dark  suspicion,  the  more  she  became 
convinced  that,  whatever  was  his  history,  two  things  were 
clear  —  he  was  of  gentle  birth  and  had  had  a  liberal 
education,  and  he  was  not  only  an  honourable  man,  but 
had  a  peculiar  tenderness  in  his  character  which  marked 
him  as  one  of  Nature's  nobility.  For  if  the  hall-mark  of 
nobility  in  the  eyes  of  the  noble  is  unemotional  serenity, 
the  hall-mark  of  nobihty  of  Nature  is  gentleness  and  ten- 
derness towards  all,  even  the  most  humble.  Yet  she  thought 
sometimes  —  it  is  suffering  that  has  made  him  thus ;  but 
this  rather  increased  than  diminished  her  interest  in  him, 
now  rapidly  growing  into  something  more  deep  and  tender. 
There  was  a  crowded  house,  for  the  people  gathered  in 
from  all  quarters  to  see  the  novelty.  It  would  be  difficult 
to  conjecture  what  they  expected,  but  it  is  to  be  feared 
that  if  they  thought  the  programme  was  intended  to  be 
purely  educational,  they  would  not  have  been  too  eager 
to  come.  ''Fun  and  frolic,"  "Pancm  et  circenses,"  are 
still  our  cry.  But  nothing  was  more  foreign  to  Maxwell's 
intentions.  He  had  a  mission  of  elevation,  of  pushing  up 
these  gifted  people,  who  were,  alas,  unconscious  of  their 
gifts,  to  higher  levels ;  and  he  knew  no  other  way  of  effect- 
ing this  than  by  submitting  to  them  the  masterpieces  of 
the  world's  literary  master. 


314  LISHEEN 

He  was  delighted  beyond  measure  at  his  success.  The 
long  hall  looked  well  in  the  lamplight.  The  rude,  bare 
rafters  were  wrapped  in  festoons  of  ivy  and  long  tendrils 
of  woodbine,  just  then  breaking  into  leaf.  The  stage  was 
rude,  and  the  benches  were  rude,  but  the  former  was 
covered  with  plants  and  flowers,  the  latter  were  filled 
with  an  eager  and,  as  events  proved,  a  most  appreciative 
and  intelligent  audience.  Hamberton  sat  in  the  front 
bench,  more  moody  than  cynical,  for  he  knew  that  behind 
the  mock  tragedy  on  the  stage  there  was  a  more  real  and 
terrible  tragedy  impending. 

The  proceedings  commenced  with  the  singing  of  one  or 
two  of  Shakespeare's  lyrics,  and  then  came  the  murder 
scene  in  Macbeth.  The  two  leading  characters  were  so 
disguised  that  the  simple  peasantry  failed  to  recognise 
them,  and  this  made  the  awful  scene  more  impressive.  It 
would  have  flattered  Claire  Moulton  exceedingly,  at  least 
in  her  dramatic  role,  could  she  have  heard  the  comments 
that  were  made  by  this  impressionable  and  emotional 
audience  upon  her  impersonation  of  Lady  Macbeth.  It 
was  simply  marvellous  how  they  caught  up  the  thread  of 
the  story  —  the  weakness  and  vacillation  of  Macbeth,  the 
more  than  masculine  determination  of  his  wife,  his  despair : 

"She's  the  divil  out  an'  out,"  whispered  one. 

"She'd  do  it  herself,  only  she  thought  she  saw  her 
father,"  said  another. 

"  Wondher  that  same  shtopped  her,"  said  a  third.  But 
there  was  universal  contempt  for  Macbeth.  A  murderer 
was  bad  enough,  but  a  weak  murderer,  and  one  who 
would  place  the  guilt  on  innocent  men,  was  beyond  all 
human  forgiveness. 


SHAKESPEARIAN  RECITALS  315 

In  the  last  scene  of  the  second  part  of  the  programme, 
the  murder  of  Desdemona,  rustic  feelings  ran  very  high. 
The  callousness  of  Othello,  and  his  short,  brutal  answers 
to  Desdemona's  plaintive  and  piteous  appeals  for  mercy, 
seemed  to  wind  the  people  up  to  a  pitch  of  desperation. 
Their  contempt  for  the  "nigger,"  their  pity  for  his  beauti- 
ful wife,  and  the  excellent  acting  of  both,  infuriated  the 
people,  until  they  quite  lost  themselves,  forgot  it  was  a 
drama,  and  thought  they  were  face  to  face  with  a  real 
tragedy.  The  women  were  moaning  and  crying,  the  chil- 
dren were  yelling  with  fright,  and,  at  the  moment  when 
the  Moor  went  over  and  placed  the  fatal  pillow  on  the 
lips  of  the  unhappy  woman,  there  was  a  general  rising  of 
the  men,  which  would  have  issued  badly  for  Othello  had 
not  Hamberton  risen  and  with  one  motion  of  his  hand 
quelled  the  emotions  of  the  people.  They  sat  down 
quivering  with  excitement,  which  was  only  stilled  when 
Othello  drove  the  dagger  into  his  own  breast.  This 
appeared  to  relieve  their  feelings. 

"Bad  ind  to  the  ruffian.  Sure  it  was  only  what  he 
desarved." 

"Where's  the  good  of  his  sorra?  They're  always  sorry 
whin  it  can't  be  remedied." 

"Yerra,  shure  'twas  only  play  actin'  they  won" 

"Yerra,  av  coorse,  didn't  ye  hear  the  Masther  say  so?" 

"Begor  thin,'  'twas  quare  play  acthin'.  Didn't  ye  see 
him  smother  the  poor  girl  ?  An'  drive  the  soord  into  his 
own  stumac?" 

"Yerra,  sure  they  say  'twas  Miss  Claire,  and  that  she 
isn't  dead  at  all." 

"Miss  Claire?     Be  this  an'  that,  av  I  thought  'twas 


3i6  LISHEEN 

Miss  Claire,  I'd  have  settled  that  chap  before  he  sot  a 
wet  finger  upon  her." 

The  reahsm,  indeed,  was  but  too  perfect,  and  Maxwell 
became  the  butt  of  that  truculent  amusement  with  which 
crowds  often  pursue  a  victim  who  has  merely  assumed  a 
part.  If  you  wear  a  lion's  skin  you  must  expect  a  lion's 
measure  of  fear  or  reprobation.  And  in  Ireland,  where  a 
witty  judge  has  said,  everything  is  Opera  Boufje,  a  man 
must  suffer  for  whatever  part  he  assumes  in  the  curious 
melodrama. 

And  so  Othello,  in  his  white  tunic  and  red  tasselled 
girdle,  was  pursued  by  a  hooting  crowd  to  his  own  door, 
when  the  recitals  were  over. 

"  Ss  —  ss  —  ss  —  sh  —  sh  —  sh !  Look  at  him,  the 
dirty  nigger,  who  smothered  his  wife!  Begor,  what  a 
beauty  you  wor  that  she  should  take  a  fancy  to  you! 
'Twas  jealousy,  my  dear!  Sure  he  thought  no  wan  as 
handsome  as  himself!  He'll  want  another  now  to  settle 
her  agin!     Bah!     Bah!     Ss  —  ss  —  ss  —  ss!" 

More  or  less  terrified  and  disgusted,  and  yet  half 
pleased  with  the  unconscious  flattery  of  the  mob,  he 
murmured  to  himself: 

"  Clearly,  the  work  of  educating  these  people  is  no  child's 
play." 

He  was  hot  and  fatigued  from  his  exertions  and  was 
slowly  washing  off  the  burnt  cork  that  disguised  him, 
when  Mrs.  Donegan,  who  was  his  maid-of-all-work,  came 
in  and  said: 

"There  are  two  gentlemen  waiting  to  see  you  out- 
side." 

"Let  them  wait,"  he  said  impatiently. 


SHAKESPEARIAN  RECITALS  317 

But  they  didn't.  They  came  in,  without  fuss  or  excite- 
ment, and  the  foremost  said: 

"Your  name  is  Maxwell?    Robert  Maxwell?" 

"Yes,"  said  Maxwell,  brusquely.  "What  do  you 
want?" 

"I've  come  to  arrest  you,"  said  the  man,  "on  a  charge, 
or  rather  a  suspicion,  of  being  concerned  in  the  murder 
of  a  girl." 

The  thought  of  Desdemona  and  the  part  he  had  just 
taken  towards  her  was  so  uppermost  in  Max^vell's  mind 
that  he  was  quite  sure  the  officer  referred  to  her,  and  he 
said  angrily: 

"You  d — d  fool,  don't  you  know  that  it  was  but  a 
Shakespearian  dialogue.  It's  bad  enough  to  be  hooted  by 
that  ignorant  mob  outside,  but  you  should  know  better." 

"It  has  nothing  to  do  with  that,"  said  the  officer. 
"The  charge  is  a  more  serious  one,  I  regret  to  say.  Come 
with  us." 

"Allow  me,"  said  Maxwell,  seeing  that  the  thing  looked 
serious.  "There  is  some  stupid  and  abominable  mistake. 
You  say  I'm  charged  with  murder,  or  complicity  in  mur- 
der.   Where,  and  when?" 

"I'd  advise  you,"  said  the  officer,  "for  your  o\\ti  sake 
to  say  no  more.  This  is  my  warrant,  if  you  care  to  see  it. 
We've  been  looking  for  you  for  some  time." 

"I  tell  you  there  is  some  infernal  mistake  somewhere," 
said  Maxwell.  "I  never  had  anything  to  do  with  ^•iolence 
except  on  the  stage.     Or  is  this  all  a  practical  joke?" 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  officer.  "  We  can't  delay.  We 
have  a  car  waiting.  If  you  use  any  violence  or  show 
resistance,  I  shall  have  to  handcuff  you." 


3i8  LISHEEN 

Utterly  dazed  and  bewildered  at  the  sudden  turn  in  his 
affairs,  yet  perfectly  conscious  of  his  innocence,  Maxwell 
swiftly  made  his  toilet,  and  called  in  Mrs.  Donegan, 
bidding  her  see  after  his  affairs  during  a  short  absence. 
Then,  turning  to  the  officers,  he  said,  coldly,  but 
politely : 

"You  are  making  a  serious  mistake  for  which  I  shall 
make  you  pay.  But  I  cannot  resist  you.  Please  take  me 
before  Mr.  Hamberton.     I  must  see  him." 

Hamberton  was  in  his  dining-room  at  supper  when  the 
visitors  were  announced.  Claire  Moulton,  still  habited  as 
Desdemona,  was  with  him.  They  were  talking  over  the 
events  of  the  evening,  and  laughing  at  the  unconscious 
flattery  of  the  people  towards  Maxwell,  when  the  latter 
entered,  accompanied  by  the  officers. 

"You  must  forgive  this  unwarrantable  intrusion,  Mr. 
Hamberton,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  somewhat  unsteady  from 
emotion,  "but  our  stage  fictions  have  had  a  curious  ending. 
These  gentlemen  charge  me  with  actual  murder." 

Hamberton  was  silent,  looking  down  at  the  table,  and 
toying  with  his  knife.  Maxwell  gulped  down  something 
and  went  on: 

"I  have  not  the  faintest  idea  to  what  they  refer,  and  they 
refuse  to  give  any  information.  They  seem  to  think  they 
are  conceding  a  high  privilege  in  not  having  handcuffed 
me.  There  is  some  stupid  mistake  somewhere,  but  at 
least  it  has  one  good  result.  It  solves  a  difficulty  for  me, 
and  compels  me  to  make  a  revelation  to  you,  which 
otherwise  I  should  have  no  excuse  for  doing." 

Hamberton  was  still  silent,  but  manifested  more  interest 
here.     Claire  Moulton  was  devouring  Maxwell  with  her 


SHAKESPEARIAN   RECITALS  319 

eyes.  The  latter  went  on,  simply  and  quietly,  as  if  he 
were  telling  some  one  else's  story: 

"My  name  is  Maxwell,  Robert  Maxwell,  I  am  the 
landlord  of  this  district,  and  therefore  your  landlord." 

Hamberton  now  stood  up.  Claire  Moulton  looked  at 
him  meaningly,  and  a  smile  of  pleasure  and  triumph  stole 
over  her  features. 

"I  am  a  Trinity  man,"  Maxwell  continued,  "an  M.  A. 
of  Trinity,  and  I  have  read  long  and  deeply.  That's  why 
I  am  here.  I  could  have  done  like  all  my  college  asso- 
ciates and  compeers,  —  killed  so  many  foxes,  shot  so 
many  brace  of  partridge  or  pheasants,  evicted  so  many 
tenants,  and  remained  an  honoured  and  respected  member 
of  the  aristocracy,  but  I  read  and  read  and  understood 
that  life  has  finer  issues  than  these,  and  that  I  was  called 
to  a  more  arduous  and  lofty  mission.  I  read  somewhere 
that  sooner  or  later  every  spirit  is  tested,  and  an  alter- 
native placed  before  it,  to  ascend  the  summit  of  being,  and 
find  in  its  cold,  clear  atmosphere  its  rightful  place,  or  to 
remain  deep  down  in  the  valleys  of  Paphos,  and  pursue 
an  easy,  voluptuous  existence,  sanctioned  by  the  usages 
of  society,  but  condemned  by  my  own  conscience.  I  made 
up  my  mind.  I  was  the  owner  of  broad  acres,  and  I  held 
the  lives  and  happiness  of  many  toilers  and  workers  in 
my  hands  — " 

"Pardon,  one  moment,"  said  Hamberton.  Then,  turn- 
ing to  the  officers  of  the  law,  he  said: 

"You  see  you  have  made  a  grim  mistake,  my  men. 
Perhaps,  however,  you  would  wait  outside,  until  I  clear 
the  matter  up." 

"If  you  can  guarantee,  sir,  —  I  fear  there  is  a  mistake. 


320  LISHEEN 

aixi  that  this  is  the  'mad  landlord'  some  of  us  have  been 
questing  for.     But  we  must  do  our  duty," 

"All  right!  That's  all  right,"  said  Hamberton,  im- 
patiently. "But  I  promise  you  he  won't  escape  through 
the  window.     Don't  you  see  he's  a  gentleman?" 

And  the  officers  went  out. 

" Go  on,  Mr.  Maxwell,"  said  Hamberton.  "This  grows 
interesting." 

"I  was  saying,"  said  Maxwell,  flushed  and  excited, 
"that  I  held  the  lives  and  happiness  of  many  poor  earth- 
diggers  and  spade-slaves  in  my  hands,  and  I  could,  if  I 
had  chosen,  unrebuked  by  the  customs  of  the  age  and 
society,  have  extracted  their  sweat,  and  coined  it  for  my 
own  selfish  use.  But,  as  I  tell  you,  I  had  read  wisely  or 
unwisely;  and  I  felt  I  had  duties  towards  these  serfs,  as 
well  as  rights  over  their  wretched  labour.  I  felt  that 
someone  was  called  to  raise  up  this  wretched  and  teeming 
population  above  chronic  conditions  of  starvation  and 
ignorance,  and  I  knew  this  could  not  be  done  from  outside. 
They  would  suspect  the  motive  of  the  benefaction,  and 
they  would  have  reason  to  suspect  it,  and  my  toil  would 
be  in  vain.  I  determined  to  go  down  amongst  them,  to 
become  one  of  themselves.  The  idea  was  floating  for  a 
long  time  before  my  mind,  but  only  took  shape  when  I 
was  taunted  about  it  in  a  Dublin  club.  I  took  fire.  I 
was  challenged  to  do  what  everj^one  deemed  impracticable, 
and  even  insane.  There  was  one  man  especially  there, 
a  returned  Indian,  who  was  conspicuously  contemptuous. 
I  had  reason  to  dislike  him  and  suspect  him.  He  con- 
tinued to  taunt  me.  He  wore  a  ring  —  an  intaglio,  to 
which  he  attached  superstitious  importance.     I  suddenly 


SHAKESPEARIAN  RECITALS  321 

conceived  an  idea.  I  made  a  promise  to  go  down  and 
become  a  day-labourer  amongst  the  peasantry,  and  to  live 
their  liveg  for  twelve  months,  but  I  demanded  that  ring  in 
return.  He  would  have  refused,  but  he  was  shamed  into 
it.     This  is  the  ring." 

He  handed  it  carelessly  to  Hamberton,  who  examined  it 
closely,  and  passed  it  on  to  Claire,  who  studied  it  also, 
and  then  unconsciously  retained  it. 

"It  is  not  much,"  said  Hamberton.  "One  of  those 
talismans  which  Arabian  Mussulmen  wear.  It  is  phos- 
phorescent, is  it  not?" 

"Yes,"  said  Maxwell.  "Well,  at  last,  he  consented, 
and  I  took  up  my  strange  role  and  came  down  here  to 
Lisheen.  I  had  tried  several  farmers  for  employment, 
but  met  refusals  everywhere.  I  was  too  genteel  a  tramp, 
I  suppose.  At  last,  footsore  and  weary  and  hungry  and 
in  despair,  I  came  to  Lisheen.  The  poor  old  woman  was 
alone  in  her  kitchen  when  I  entered  and  made  the  usual 
appeal  of  a  beggar.  She  took  me  in,  gave  me  food  and 
lodging  and  such  sympathy  as  a  poor,  starved  tramp 
alone  can  appreciate.  Her  husband  came  in,  her  son, 
her  daughter.  It  was  all  ahke.  I  asked  for  work,  and  got 
it.  Need  I  say,  it  was  nominal  on  my  part.  My  limbs 
ached  under  a  pressure  that  was  merely  pleasant  to  these 
athletes  of  Nature.  Yet  I  was  not  dismissed.  They 
treated  me  as  one  of  themselves,  only  that  they  worked 
and  I  was  idle.  At  last,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  depart, 
and  had  actually  gone,  when  they  forced  me  back.  The 
young  girl,  Debbie,  came  after  me  and  ordered  me  back. 
It  was  well  for  me.  That  night  I  was  down  with  rheu- 
matic fever,  and  was  ill  for  three  weeks,  during  which 


322  LISHEEN 

they  nursed  me  with  infinite  solicitude  and  care.  Was  I 
grateful?  God  knows  I  was.  The  time  has  come  for 
proving  my  gratitude  now.  You  know  all.  How  they 
struggled  against  an  impossible  rent,  how  Netterville  took 
his  revenge  — " 

"I  understand  all,"  said  Hamberton.  "But  I  cannot 
make  out  why  you  prevented  a  settlement  with  the  sheriff 
that  day.  You  know  they  resented  it  and  the  whole 
country-side  with  them." 

"I  do,"  said  Maxwell,  smiHng.  "But  I  wanted  them 
to  touch  the  very  bedrock  of  trouble,  in  order  to  build  on 
it  more  permanently,  and  I  wanted  to  show  another 
example  to  the  world  of  what  an  Irish  agent  can  do. 
And  now  you  have  to  help  me.  This  unfortunate  arrest, 
or  rather  ridiculous  and  stupid  blunder,  has  precipitated 
matters.  So  much  the  better.  Here  are  the  title-deeds  — 
the  fee-simple  of  that  farm  at  Lisheen,  which  I  have 
purchased  from  the  landlord  and  made  over  to  the 
McAulififes  for  ever.  I  want  you,  knowing  your  benevo- 
lence, to  arrange  for  me,  whilst  I  am  away,  to  have  that 
farm-house  rebuilt  on  the  newest  and  most  modem  plans 
of  comfort,  retaining  all  its  old  homely  features.  I  want 
the  byres  to  have  seven  cows  feeding  in  them  when  these 
poor  people  come  out  of  prison.  I  want  to  have  ten 
sheep  on  the  fields.  I  want  all  the  fences  repaired,  new 
gates  hung  up,  the  land  tilled  and  sown.  You  can  get 
the  Land  League  to  do  it.  They'll  do  anything  for  you. 
They'd  shoot  me.  In  a  word,  I  want  everything  done 
for  them  that  can  be  done,  down  to  the  pot  on  the  fire, 
and  the  hens  in  the  coop,  and  the  pig  in  her  stye,  and  I 
rely  on  you  to  do  it.     Need  I  say  I  shall  bear  the  expense  ?" 


SHAKESPEARIAN  RECITALS  323 

He  stopped.  Claire  Moulton,  though  in  tears,  looked 
smilingly  at  her  guardian. 

"  'Tis  a  strange,  -weird  story,"  said  Hamberton,  walking 
up  and  down  the  room.  "One  of  the  things  that  would 
be  impossible  out  of  Ireland,  and  impossible  in  Ireland, 
I  would  say,  if  I  had  not  seen  it.  But  my  dear  fellow, 
when  you  have  conquered  these  kingdoms,  what  do  you 
propose  to  do?" 

"To  sell  my  property,  liberate  my  slaves,  and  settle 
down  here  to  work  for  humanity  with  you." 

"Tut,  tut,  nonsense,"  said  Hamberton.  "You  could 
never  settle  down  here  alone." 

"Not  quite  alone,  uncle,"  said  Claire  Moulton,  coming 
over  and  standing  near  Maxwell.  Her  eyes  were  red 
from  weeping  at  the  singular  tale  she  had  heard,  and 
which  Maxwell  had  already  partly  revealed  to  her.  "With 
your  consent,  I  have  promised  Mr,  Maxwell  to  be  his 
wife." 

"Hallo!  is  that  the  way  the  land  lies?"  said  Hamberton. 
"Is  that  how  you  have  kept  your  promise  to  me?" 

"I  didn't  break  it,  uncle,"  she  said,  "until  I  knew  all." 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  said  Hamberton.  "The  old 
story,  the  old  story.  But  I  must  clear  up  one  thing. 
Hallo,  there!"  he  cried  to  the  officers. 

They  came  in. 

"Your  prisoner  is  now  ready,  and  perhaps  this  young 
lady  may  accompany  him.  But,  sergeant,  look  here. 
There  must  have  been  depositions  before  a  warrant  could 
be  issued.  On  whose  depositions  have  you  made  the 
frightful  blunder  of  arresting  this  gentleman  who  owns 
half  Kerry?" 


324  LISHEEN 

"The  young  girl's  who  was  arrested  at  Lisheen  at  the 
eviction,"  said  the  officer. 

"Debbie  McAuHffe?"  said  Maxwell  in  amazement. 

"That's  her  name,  I  think,  sir." 

"But  what  could  have  put  such  an  idea  in  the  girl's 
head?"  reflected  Maxwell.  "I  suppose  she  was  angry 
about  the  eviction." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Hamberton,  looking  at  Claire. 
"But  her  revenge  was  rather  tragic.  And  how  could  she 
have  conceived  the  idea  of  murder?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maxwell.  "They  all  took  me  for 
an  army  deserter,  except  this  girl,  who  from  the  first 
maintained  a  different  opinion.  However,  I  had  better 
go  on  and  clear  matters  up.  There's  something  gained, 
for  they  say  every  decent  man  in  Ireland  must  go  to  gaol 
some  time  or  another.  Au  revoir!'^  He  held  out  his 
hand  to  Hamberton.  "You  undertake  to  do  all  I  require 
about  Lisheen?" 

"Ye-es,"  said  Hamberton.  "I  think  it  Quixotic,  but 
everything  you  have  done  hitherto  is  so.  You  only  want 
the  pot  for  a  helmet  and  your  equipment  is  complete." 

"Well,  I  have  found  my  Dulcinea,"  said  Maxwell, 
laughing. 

"And  Claire  has  found  her  hero,"  said  Hamberton. 
"But  what  will  Father  Cosgrove  say,  I  wonder." 


CHAPTER  XXX 


A   LEPER 


When  Outram  tapped  at  his  wife's  door  and  uninvited 
entered,  he  found  the  room  in  complete  darkness.  He 
could  not  distinguish  Mabel's  figure,  and  said  hesita- 
tingly: 

"  Mabel,  are  you  here  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said  firmly.  "I  am  here.  What  do  you 
seek?" 

"Let  me  ring  for  a  light.  There's  something  wrong. 
What  is  it?" 

"You  have  come  into  my  room,"  she  said,  "unasked. 
You  have  something  to  say,  or  seek!  Better  say  it  in  the 
darkness  than  in  the  light.     What  is  it?" 

"Mabel,"  he  said,  "there's  something  evidently  wrong. 
This  is  unusual.  Are  you  coming  down  to  dinner?  Or, 
look  here  — "  he  said,  as  if  suddenly  struck  by  a  new  idea, 
"will  you  let  me  send  for  Dr.  BelHngham?  Clearly,  you 
are  not  well. 

He  had  come  over,  guided  by  her  voice  and  by  the  faint 
gleam  of  pallor  from  her  face,  and  stood  over  her,  as  she 
sat  by  the  window. 

"Again,  I  repeat,"  she  said,  "you  have  come  here 
unsolicited.  Furthermore,  you  are  acting  a  part,  and 
acting  it  badly.  You  have  something  to  say;  say  it.  If 
you  have  naught  to  say,  leave  me." 

325 


326  LISHEEN 

He  still  kept  a  firm  hold  on  his  rising  temper,  though 
he  felt  his  hands  trembling. 

"For  God's  sake,  Mab,"  he  said,  "let  nothing  come 
between  us  now.  We  are  too  recently  yoked  to  quarrel. 
There  will  be  misunderstandings,  I  suppose,  for  ever, 
between  married  people,  but  as  a  rule,  they  are  easily 
cleared  up.  Now,  it  is  clear,  we  both  have  tempers.  We 
can't  help  that.  But,  for  God's  sake,  let  us  give  and  take. 
We  have  to  consult  for  each  other's  happiness,  or  at  least, 
peace.  And  there's  the  old  man,  your  father,  to  consider. 
I  know  he  doesn't  hke  this  kind  of  thing,  and  he's 
troubled  —  " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "he  is  troubled,  and  why?" 

"Why?  Because  you  are  giving  way  to  nerves,  or 
temper,  or  something  feminine,  which  we  men  don't 
understand." 

"He  understands,"  she  said,  "too  much,  but  not  all." 

"What  then  does  he  understand?"  said  Outram. 
"Come,  let  us  have  explanations.  There's  nothing  like 
clearing  the  air," 

"He  understands,"  said  Mabel,  slowly,  but  with  terrible 
distinctness,  "that  he  and  I  have  made  the  blunder  of 
our  Uves.  He  understands  that  I  have  paid,  for  my  partial 
disobedience  to  his  wishes,  a  fearful  penalty.  He  under- 
stands that  on  the  day,  I,  in  my  girlish  folly  and  ambition, 
promised  to  be  your  wife,  it  would  have  been  better  if  he 
had  seen  me  dead.  He  understands  that  partly  for  him, 
altogether  for  me,  there  is  no  more  peace  or  happiness 
any  more  for  ever." 

"Not  very  complimentary,"  said  Outram,  "but  at  least 
you  will  be  pleased  to  remember  that  I  did  not  force 


A   LEPER  327 

myself  on  you  in  any  undue  or  unbecoming  manner. 
You  are  not  pleased  with  me  —  I,  at  least,  conjecture  that 
to  be  your  meaning  —  but  you  married  position,  and 
power,  and  a  certain  place  in  society.  You  still  retain 
them,  and  you  have  no  reason  to  complain." 

The  words  were  cutting  because  they  were  so  terribly 
true.     Mabel  dared  not  deny  them.     He  was  encouraged. 

"You  could  have  married,"  he  went  on,  "that  idiotic 
cousin  of  yours,  and  been  now  a  dairy-maid  in  Kerry, 
instead  of  being  one  of  the  recognised  queens  of  such 
society  as  we  have  here,  but  you  chose  better.  Why  do 
you  complain?" 

"Because  I  didn't  know,"  she  said  with  contrition,  "the 
penalty  of  such  pride,  the  terrible  conditions  attaching  to 
it." 

"You  mean  my  personahty?" 

She  hesitated  to  say  the  offensive  word.  But  he  per- 
sisted. 

"It  is  I  who  am  the  horror.     Is  it  not?" 

She  muttered  a  feeble  yes. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  bitterly,  "I  am  not  the  Adonis 
you  imagined.  The  Lord  didn't  make  me  a  Count 
d'Orsay,  a  padded  creature  of  stays  and  corsets  to  catch 
the  eye  of  a  silly  girl.  But  you  have  all  you  anticipated 
otherwise.     Surely,  you  didn't  expect  love  in  the  bargain  ?  " 

She  was  silent.  He  knew  his  advantage,  and  went  on 
mercilessly : 

"You  bartered  your  happiness  dehberately  for  other 
things,"  he  said.  "But  you  did  no  more  than  every 
other  woman  in  society.  People  may  read  novels,  but 
even  the  most  silly  of  school-misses  doesn't  believe  in 


328  LISHEEN 

them.  Their  good  mammas  take  care  of  that.  Girls 
marry  in  these  unpoetical  and  prosaic  days  for  money, 
position,  a  place  in  society,  and  they  are  prepared  to  take 
with  such  things  their  disadvantages.  For  Nature  is  im- 
partial, ma  chirie.  Where  she  gives  beauty,  she  balances 
it  with  idiocy,  where  she  gives  inteUigence,  she  retrieves 
the  gift  with  ugliness  or  moral  malformation.  Your 
Adonis  is  always  a  fool.  Now,  most  women  beheve  and 
understand  this,  and  are  content  with  a  few  of  the  gifts 
of  fortune.     You  want  all." 

"  I  wanted  at  least  as  much  as  I  gave,"  she  said.  "When 
a  girl  gives  up  everything  she  expects  some  return." 

"Well  said,  my  dear,"  he  cried  with  a  tone  of  triumph. 
"Now,  we  are  beginning  to  understand.  You  see  there 
is  nothing  Hke  an  academic  argument,  hke  this,  to  throw 
light  on  matters,  although  this  seems  sUghtly  out  of  place 
in  such  Cimmerian  gloom.  Now,  let  us  pursue  this  train 
of  thought,  which  you  have  so  admirably  started.  You 
looked  on  our  marriage  as  a  bargain,  as  a  contract,  where 
there  should  be  a  fair  interchange  of  goods.  Neither  of 
us  pretended  then,  or  pretends  now,  to  any  sentimentaUty 
on  the  matter.  Now,  it  does  not  reflect  credit  on  my 
business  tact  or  talent  to  have  to  admit  that  I  think  you 
have  had  decidedly  the  best  of  the  bargain.  You  mar- 
ried for  position,  ease,  social  rank,  etc.,  etc.,  I  married 
that  I  might  have  a  handsome  woman,  whom  I  could  call 
my  wife,  and  who  would  be  known  in  society  as  Mrs. 
Ralph  Outram.  I  obtained  that  desire.  Mrs.  Ralph 
Outram  is  the  queen  of  fashion,  the  c}Tiosure  of  all  eyes 
in  the  drawing-room,  at  the  theatre,  at  the  ball;  and  I  am 
rewarded  when  I  hear  one   eye-glassed  idiot  say   after 


A  LEPER 


329 


another;  'What  a  demd  handsome  woman!  Who 
is  she?'  And  the  reply  is:  'Mrs.  Ralph  Outram  — 
Outram,  you  know,  who  is  aide-de-camp,  etc.'  It  is  a 
poor  compensation,  I  admit,  but  que  voulez-vous?  I  say 
to  myself.  You  couldn't  have  done  better.  But,  my 
dear  Mabel,  don't  you  see  the  balance  is  on  your  side? 
Position,  wealth,  social  rank,  admiration,  envy  on  your 
side;  and,  on  mine,  the  poor  compensation  of  being 
ranked  as  Mrs.  Outram's  husband.  Now,  fie!  fie!  When 
a  girl  has  made  such  a  tremendous  bargain,  why  should 
she  rail  against  fortune?" 

Mabel  sat  crouched  in  her  sofa  under  the  terrible 
words.  They  were  uttered  so  cynically,  so  coolly,  that 
she  could  not  reply;  and,  above  all,  they  were  truel  She 
sold  herself  in  the  marriage-market,  and  she  had  no 
reason  to  complain  of  the  price.  She  could  only  feebly 
say: 

"When  people  repent  of  their  bargain,  they  are  some- 
times allowed  to  revoke  it.     Have  you  any  objection  ?" 

"The  greatest,  my  dear.  I  could  not  think  of  revok- 
ing such  an  important  contract,  and  one  so  advantageous 
to  you  on  any  terms.  You  see  I  am  disinterested.  I  do 
not  consider  myself.  All  the  gain  is  on  your  side;  and  I 
have  such  a  deep  interest  in  you  that  I  should  consider 
myself  ungenerous  were  I  to  take  advantage  of  your 
offer.  No!  my  dear  wz"/^,"  he  laid  terrible  emphasis  on 
the  word,  "we  are  linked  together  for  good  or  ill,  and 
must  remain  so.  And  now,  one  little  word!  You  are 
very  innocent  if  you  don't  know  that  these  little  differ- 
ences of  temperament  do  exist  in  all  married  circles. 
They  do.     Men  of  the  world,  hke  myself,  understand 


33©  LISHEEN 

this  well;  and,  when  they  see  more  than  the  usual  demon- 
strations of  affection  between  married  people,  they  shrug 
their  shoulders,  and  say  something  about  Mrs.  Caudle's 
Lectures.  But  they  are  wise  enough  to  keep  their  secrets 
to  themselves.  Now,  this  is  what  I  want  you  to  do. 
Whatever  happens,  you  must  understand  that  the  social 
convenances  shall  not,  and  must  not,  be  put  aside.  In 
polite  circles,  emotionalism  is  a  crime.  Anything  but 
that.  You  may  be  angry,  or  discontented,  or  envious, 
or  unhappy;  but  you  must  not  show  it.  We  do  not  love 
each  other;  and  I  suppose  never  shall  —  ?" 

He  stopped  as  if  questioning  her. 

"Never,"  she  said  solemnly. 

"Very  good.  Tant  mieux.  But  at  least,  let  us  not 
have  scenes.  Now,  that  little  scene  last  night  was  not 
quite  becoming.  It  hurts  people.  And,  what  is  worse, 
it  makes  people  talk,  and  conjecture,  and  form 
opinions." 

"What  do  you  refer  to ?"  she  asked,  feeling  at  last  that 
he  was  plunging  beyond  his  depth,  out  of  the  region 
where  his  cynicism  made  him  safe. 

"I  mean  your  collapse,  your  fainting-fit,  your  un- 
govemed  emotion  in  that  drawing-room.  It  was  un- 
guarded, and  unbecoming." 

"I  could  not  help  it,"  she  said,  drawing  him  into  deeper 
depths. 

"Oh,  yes!  you  could.  There  was  really  no  necessity 
for  it." 

"It  was  a  dread  revelation  to  a  woman,  to  a  wife," 
she  said. 

"What?    You   don't   mean   that   any   woman    would 


A  LEPER 


331 


regard  a  little  excess  as  an  unforgivable  offence  in  her 
husband?" 

"Quite  the  reverse,"  she  answered.  "I  regarded  it  as 
a  blessing." 

"As  a  blessing?" 

"Quite  so!" 

"How?" 

"Because  for  the  first  time  you  told  the  truth,  and 
revealed  yourself." 

"How?  I  don't  understand,"  he  said.  The  darkness 
shut  out  the  sight  of  pallid  lips  and  whitened  face.  But 
Mabel  knew  that  her  moment  of  triumph  had  come. 
Yet  she  hesitated.  The  truth  was  too  terrible  to  be 
spoken.  Even  to  such  a  callous  and  unfeeling  wretch, 
it  was  hard  to  speak  so  bitter  a  word.  But  she  felt  it  was 
an  opportunity  that  once  lost  would  never  be  recovered. 
She  recalled  for  a  moment  all  his  stinging  words  to  for- 
tify her  lest  her  woman's  hearT  should  fail  her.  She 
repeated  them,  over  and  over  in  her  mind;  and  yet  so 
swiftly  that  the  pause  seemed  unnoticed.  The  bitter 
language  stung  and  smote  her  into  a  passionate  desire 
for  revenge.  She  yearned  to  say  the  one  word  that 
would  kill  him.  But,  she  had  discretion  enough  left  to 
allow  him  to  drag  the  fatal  word  forth. 

"You  told  a  strange  story,"  she  said.  "It  was  sen- 
sational enough  for  a  new  magazine." 

"Yes,  when  it  made  you  faint  and  swoon,"  he 
replied. 

"It  was  well  invented,"  she  said. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  he  said.  "It  reflects 
credit  on  my  imagination.     It  so  excited  the  fancy  of 


332  LISHEEN 

that  professor  over  his  whisky,  that  he  should  have  it 
again  over  his  tea." 

"It  cleared  up  one  or  two  mysteries  for  me,"  said 
Mabel. 

"Indeed?" 

"Yes!  The  Sanscrit  writing  that  came  with  the 
porphyry  vase."  Then  she  added,  as  in  a  tone  of  un- 
concern : 

"The  porphyry  vase  is  broken!" 

He  started  back,  and  muttered  in  a  tone  of  alarm: 

"Hell!    Who  broke  it?" 

"I,"  she  said.  "The  green  snake  stirred  in  the  bottom 
of  the  vase,  and  I  thought  it  might  have  stung  me.  I 
struck  it  with  the  heavy  steel  shell,  and  the  snake  was 
crushed  into  powder;  and  the  vase  parted  in  two." 

"You  have  done  an  evil  thing,"  he  repUed.  "You 
have  summoned  and  defied  your  Fate,  and  you  will  rue 
it.  Come  now.  Let  us  see  the  mischief  you  have 
wrought!" 

He  put  down  his  hand  in  the  darkness,  as  if  to  reach 
her  shoulder.  He  touched  her  cheek  rudely.  She 
sprang  instantly  to  her  feet,  and  flung  him  aside. 

"How  dare  you  touch  me,"  she  said,  "you  — a  leper? 
How  dare  you  come  into  a  respectable  family,  that  has 
never  had  a  physical  or  moral  blot  or  stain  for  genera- 
tions on  their  family  history,  and  bring  your  loathsome 
presence  there?  You,  an  unknown  adventurer,  whose 
secret  and  awful  record  is  only  now  being  revealed;  you, 
a  drunkard  and  a  profligate;  you,  the  companion  and 
confidant  of  occult  and  loathsome  things  over  there  in 
India;  you,  the  hypocrite,  carrying  your  shmy  ways  into 


A  LEPER  333 

decent  society,  at  which  you  rail  and  cry  out  in  order  to 
hide  your  own  moral  deformity;  and  you,  once  a  leper 
by  your  own  confession,  and  therefore  a  leper  for  ever; 
how  could  you  have  the  courage,  how  could  you  have 
the  heart,  you  unclean  thing,  to  steal  into  our  home,  and 
bring  with  you  such  moral  and  physical  loathsomeness  ? 
You  have  given  me  position,  wealth,  social  position  ? 
Take  them!  Take  them!  and  give  me  back  my  inno- 
cence, my  ignorance.  But  you  cannot.  Oh,  my  God! 
you  cannot.  The  evil  is  done,  and  not  God  Himself 
can  undo  it!  And  I  am  betrayed  and  lost!  I,  Mabel 
Willoughby,  who  couldn't  bear  on  my  finger-tips  the 
presence  of  an  ink  spot,  nor  on  my  garments  the  pin- 
point of  a  speck;  I,  who  would  shudder  at  a  prick  of  a 
needle,  and  thought  myself  polluted  if  a  fly  rested  on  my 
hand,  —  I  have  to  bear  your  presence,  to  sit  with  you 
at  table,  drinking  in  the  pollution  of  your  presence,  and 
the  hateful  contagion  that  you  breathe.  You  unclean 
brute!  there  is  no  punishment  on  earth  sufficient  for 
your  crime!  But  go!  Go  where  you  please;  and  carry 
with  you  the  curse  and  the  despair  of  the  wrecked  and 
ruined  girl  you  have  betrayed!" 

Whilst  she  uttered  this  last  word,  she  heard  the  door 
opening,  and  saw  by  the  reflection  of  the  gas-jets  outside 
the  miserable  creature  creeping  from  the  room.  Then 
she  threw  herself  back  on  the  sofa,  murmuring: 

"Father!   Oh,  Father!" 

She  was  suddenly  startled  by  a  fearful  crash  on  the 
stairs,  and  the  sound  of  a  heavy  body  falling.  She  held 
her  breath,  divining  what  it  was.     There  was  a  rush  of 


334  LISHEEN 

feet,  the  stifled  screams  of  servants,  the  rustling  and 
pushing  of  people  vainly  trying  to  lift  something  weighty. 
Then  a  tap  at  her  door. 

"Mr.  Outram  has  a  fit,  ma'am,  on  the  stairs.  Will 
you  come  and  see  him?" 

She  came  forth,  and  her  wild  pale  face  startled  the 
servants.  She  came  slowly  down  into  the  lobby,  shading 
her  eyes  from  the  gas-light,  until  she  stood  over  the  pros- 
trate body  of  her  husband.  The  butler  and  footman 
were  trying  to  hft  the  inanimate  form,  whilst  the  girl- 
servants  helped.  Mabel  stood  still  as  a  statue,  looking 
down  on  the  wretched  creature  she  had  dismissed  from 
her  side  for  ever.  They  had  torn  open  his  collar  to  give 
him  room  to  breathe  freely.  There  was  a  gash  on  his 
forehead,  where  he  had  struck  against  some  sharp  pro- 
jection when  falHng.  He  was  quite  unconscious.  The 
dining-room  bell  was  ringing  furiously,  where  the  old, 
feeble,  chair-tied  Major  was  clamouring  to  know  the 
cause  of  the  disturbance.  Mabel  coldly  ordered  the 
servants  to  take  the  prostrate  and  bleeding  form  into 
the  breakfast  parlour  on  the  ground  floor.  She  swiftly 
ordered  the  doctor  to  be  sent  for;  and  then  went  in  to 
speak  to  her  father. 

"Ralph  has  had  a  fall  or  a  heavy  fit,"  she  said.  "I 
have  sent  for  the  doctor." 

"How  —  how  did  it  happen?"  asked  her  father, 
watching  with  some  curiosity  her  white,  drawn  face. 

"I  don't  know.  I  think  it  was  what  they  call  'a  visita- 
tion of  Providence.'" 

"Where  was  he?    Where  was  he  coming  from?" 

"From  my  room.   We  had  some  explanations.   Father," 


A  LEPER  335 

she  suddenly  cried,  "this  is  the  hand  of  God;  and  we  must 
flee,  flee  from  this  dreadful  place." 

"Calm  yourself,  Mabel,"  said  the  old  man.  "Above 
all,  show  nothing  to  these  servants.  You  know  how 
servants  talk." 

"I  do.  But  is  it  better  to  have  to  bear  everything  in 
silence,  than  to  be  talked  about?" 

"Yes,  oh  yes!"  said  her  father.  "Family  secrets,  you 
know,  family  secrets.  And  then,  your  own  pride!  You 
must  never  let  on  that  you  have  made  a  mistake.  That 
would  never  do.  It  would  be  an  admission  of  defeat, 
you  know.  And  think  of  the  position  you  occupy;  and 
how  all  your  friends  would  exult  over  your  unhappiness." 

"Yes,  yes.  'Tis  all  position,  and  rank,  and  secrecy. 
Oh,  if  we  could  only  go  away  somewhere;  and  be  our 
own  natural  selves.     Father?" 

"Yes,  dear!" 

"If  anything  happens  to  Ralph  —  to  Mr.  Outram, 
you  and  I  must  go  away  —  away  —  away,  anywhere; 
the  more  remote  the  better.  We'll  take  some  old  castle 
in  Scotland  where  there's  no  one  within  a  hundred  miles, 
or  go  to  Brittany,  or  —  somewhere,  anywhere  out  of  the 
world!" 

"Very  well,  my  dear.  But  I  must  have  some  kind  of 
doctor  near  me.  There  now,  go  see  after  Ralph.  The 
servants  will  talk  if  you  keep  away  from  him  just  now." 

She  returned  to  the  room  where  her  husband  lay  in- 
sensible on  the  sofa;  and,  after  giving  some  slight  orders, 
she  went  upstairs  to  her  room.  As  she  passed  through 
the  lobby,  she  saw  that  the  pedestal  on  which  the  por- 
phyry vase  stood  had  fallen;  and  that  the  vase  itself  lay 


336  LISHEEN 

shattered  into  shreds  and  fragments  on  the  floor.  Clearly, 
it  was  against  one  of  the  sharp,  broken  fragments  her 
husband  had  fallen,  after  he  had  stumbled  and  toppled 
over  the  pedestal  and  vase. 

"There  is  some  horrible  mystery  in  the  evil  thing,"  she 
thought.  "I  wish  I  had  in  my  possession,  and  could 
read,  that  girl's  letter." 

She  took  a  Hght  to  her  room ;  and  turned  up  the  gas-jets 
that  hung  before  her  mirror.  Then  she  started  back, 
affrighted  at  her  own  appearance.  Her  eyes  were  wild 
and  dilated;  and  her  mouth  seemed  to  be  drawn  down 
at  each  side,  as  if  in  paralysis ;  and  the  flesh  of  her  cheeks 
was  tightened  as  if  pulled  by  some  hidden  agony  or  force. 
She  shook  her  head  at  the  apparition. 

"Ah,  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,"  she  muttered,  "you 
put  strange  memories  in  my  head." 

How  long  she  remained  in  a  kind  of  stupor  or  ecstasy, 
staring  at  herself  there  in  the  glass,  she  could  not  remem- 
ber. She  was  recalled  to  life  and  actuahty  by  a  tap  at 
her  door  and  the  servant's  announcement  that  the  doctor 
had  come.  Then  she  made  a  few  rapid  changes  in  her 
hair,  and  went  down. 

He  had  been  examining  the  patient  carefully;  for 
Outram's  shirt-front  was  torn  open,  and  his  chest  was 
bare.  The  doctor  was  bending  over  him,  making  some 
further  examinations,  when  Mabel  silently  entered.  She 
stood  still  by  the  doctor's  side.  Presently  he  turned 
around,  and  looked  at  her. 

"Not  a  fit,"  he  said,  "but  a  fall.  He's  quite  uncon- 
scious; but  he  will  recover  consciousness  immediately." 

"He  must  have  stumbled  coming  down  stairs,"  she  said, 


A  LEPER 


337 


without  a  trace  of  emotion,  "and  thrown  down  the  por- 
phyry vase  and  then  fallen  on  it." 

"  Very  probably.  But  would  you  mind  leaving  me  alone 
for  a  few  moments,  until  I  make  a  further  examination  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  a  strange  way,  as  if  questioning, 
Can  she  bear  it  ?  Mabel  read  his  thoughts,  and  went  out. 
At  least  this  would  be  a  confirmation  or  a  contradiction 
of  her  own  conclusions. 

Dr.  Bellingham  leaned  over  the  prostrate  form  again, 
gently  opened  again  the  shirt-front,  and  looked  long  and 
anxiously  at  his  patient.  He  then  took  up  the  helpless 
hand  and  examined  it.  Then  he  felt  the  lobes  of  the 
ears.     Then  Hfted  the  closed  eyelids. 

Ah!  those  doctors!  Grand  Inquisitors  of  the  Human 
Race,  from  whom  there  is  no  secret,  because  they  have 
their  spies  in  every  feature  of  face,  of  form;  and  finger- 
nails, eyehds,  Ups,  teeth,  babble  hke  traitors  and  in- 
formers the  history  of  the  victim,  whilst  the  arch-traitors, 
the  ophthalmoscope  and  stethoscope,  probe  into  the  deepest 
recesses  and  whisper  to  the  Grand  Inquisitor  the  terrible 
secrets  of  brain  and  lungs  and  heart,  down  even  to  the 
last  thread  of  nerve  and  capillary.  And,  worse  still,  they 
tell  what  they  have  no  right  to  tell,  of  hidden  sin,  and 
moral  turpitude,  and  secret  vice;  and  by  some  terrible 
system  of  induction  tell  too  of  the  hidden  history  of  the 
dead,  —  of  the  father,  or  grandfather,  whose  sins  were 
supposed  to  be  buried  with  themselves.  Ah,  yes!  there 
is  no  secret.     The  very  leaves  will  whisper  and  tell. 

For  a  long  time  Dr.  Bellingham  watched  and  felt,  and 
felt  and  watched,  his  patient.  Then  he  drew  a  long  sigh, 
and  said,  "Poor  girl!" 


338  LISHEEN 

He  touched  the  bell.     Mabel  entered. 

"It  is  as  I  say,  Mrs.  Outram,"  he  exclaimed,  looking 
at  her  with  dilated  eyes,  as  if  questioning,  Does  she 
know?  and.  Dare  I  tell?  "There  is  shock  and  slight 
concussion  from  the  fall;  but  the  wound  has  bled  freely. 
He  will  recover  consciousness  soon;  and  the  effects  will 
soon  pass  away.  His  general  health  is  good,  is  it 
not?" 

"I  haven't  heard  Mr.  Outram  complain,"  said 
Mabel. 

"No.  He  has  seen  some  hard  service,  I  believe. 
There  are  cicatrices  on  breast  and  arm.  I  suppose 
sword-cuts." 

"I  never  heard  my  husband  say  he  was  in  action," 
said  Mabel. 

"No.  Perhaps  not.  It  may  be  something  else.  But 
the  Major  is  better,  is  he  not?" 

"My  father?"  said  Mabel,  noticing  the  sudden  change 
in  the  doctor's  words,  and  divining  ill  news  from  that 
little  circumstance.  But  she  quietly  said:  "No.  Not 
much  better.     I  suppose  he  will  never  get  better." 

"Hardly.  We  can  only  mitigate  his  sufferings.  I 
had  better  see  him,  as  I  am  here." 

Doctor  and  wife  were  staring  at  each  other  during 
this  brief  conversation,  doctor  asking  his  conscience, 
Ought  I  tell?  Mabel  asking,  Does  he  know?  Both 
were  playing  a  great  part  in  that  ugly  drama  there  in  that 
silent  room  before  that  prostrate  form.  The  servants 
were  whispering  and  tittering  outside  in  the  hall.  The 
doctor  moved  to  go.     Mabel  said : 

"Doctor,  I  have  something  to  ask  you." 


A   LEPER  339 

"To  be  sure!"  said  the  doctor,  folding  up  his  stetho- 
scope. 

"About  these  wounds;  these  cicatrices!" 
"Don't!"  said  the  doctor,  his  eyes  filling  with  tears. 
"May  God  help  me,  then!"  said  Mabel. 
"May  God  help  you,  child,"  said  the  doctor. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 


GREAT  PREPARATIONS 


Father  Cosgrove  did  not  at  all  like  the  new  develop- 
ment things  were  taking.  Fate,  or  the  Fates,  were  rush- 
ing matters  on  in  a  way  he  decidedly  disapproved  of. 
Not  that  he  was  what  is  called  in  college  slang  "a  safe 
man."  He  was  one  of  those  imprudent  characters  that 
are  always  doing  the  very  things  human  foresight  tells 
them  they  should  not  do.  Nor  was  he  an  advocate  of 
that  cast-iron  conservatism  which  studies  only  "the 
things  that  are,"  and  whose  motto  is  "Let  well  alone!" 

He  was  quite  enthusiastic  about  Maxwell,  when  Ham- 
berton  told  him  all. 

"A  fine  fellow!"  he  said.  "Ah!  if  we  had  a  few  more 
Hke  him!" 

"What  would  then  become  of  the  patience  and  long- 
suffering  of  your  people?"  Hamberton  asked  mahciously. 
"You  good  Christians  are  always  inconsistent.  You 
say  character  can  only  be  developed  by  trial  and  combat. 
But  you  want  to  avoid  trial  and  evade  combat  whenever 
you  can.  You  say  adversity  is  the  royal  road  to  Heaven. 
But  you  want  prosperity  by  preference,  and  Heaven  into 
the  bargain.  You  want  to  catch  the  two  worlds  with  one 
hand.  Now,  if  I  were  anything,  I  should  be  a  Manichaean. 
I  would  like  to  believe  that  there  is  a  Spirit  of  Evil,  created 
specially  to  prove  the  good;  and  an  overmastering  Spirit, 
the  Over-Soul  of  things,  to  reward  their  fidelity — " 

340 


GREAT  PREPARATIONS  341 

"That's  what  we  believe!"  said  Father  Cosgrove, 
faintly.  He  always  felt  in  the  hands  of  such  an  an- 
tagonist as  helpless  as  a  babe ;  though  he  knew  he  had  the 
strength  of  truth  on  his  own  side. 

"Precisely.  But  you  fight  the  Prince  of  Darkness  by 
evading  him,  not  by  facing  and  conquering  him." 

"Is  it  all  arranged  then?"  asked  Father  Cosgrove, 
anxious  to  get  away  from  these  "foolish  controversies." 

"Practically  all.     You're  sorry?" 

"I  am.  That  is  —  you  know  —  I'm  not,"  said  the 
priest,  making  circles  in  the  air.  "'Twill  all  come  right! 
'Twill  all  come  right!  Providence  is  guiding  all  in  its 
own  wise  way!" 

"There  is  then  a  Demiurgos  intermeddling  in  human 
affairs  ?"  asked  Hamberton.  He  enjoyed  the  discomfiture 
of  this  simple  man,  whose  faith  he  admired  and  envied. 

"No!"  said  the  priest,  solemnly.  "There  is  a  God, 
and  you  will — "  he  stopped,  lest  he  should  say  anything 
harsh,  "know  it!'' 

"  Perhaps  ?    The  great  Perhaps ! "  muttered  Hamberton. 

"Does  Mr.  Maxwell  know  all?"  asked  the  priest. 

"All  what?"  said  Hamberton.  He  was  actually  get- 
ting vexed,  losing  his  philosophical  equanimity  at  the 
reiteration  of  the  word  "God." 

"All  about  everything?"  said  the  priest. 

"Of  course!"  said  Hamberton.  "What  has  he  to 
know?" 

"Oh,  of  course  not,"  said  the  priest,  inconsequcntly. 
"I  mean  all  your  generous  treatment  of  Miss  Moulton's 
father?" 

Hamberton  was  struck  silent.    He  watched  the  pale, 


342  LISHEEN 

placid  face  before  him  for  a  long  while,  trying  to  read 
hidden  meanings  beneath  the  words.  He  thought  he 
discerned  a  subtle  arraignment  of  his  own  conduct  in 
this  simple  guise  of  language.  Did  this  priest  mean 
something  else?  Did  he  say,  although  not  in  as  many 
words,  "You  are  concealing  from  this  honourable  man, 
Maxwell,  the  fact  that  his  future  wife  is  the  daughter 
of  a  felon"  ? 

But  that  pale  face  was  impenetrable.  Hamberton 
would  have  liked  to  be  angry  or  cynical;  but  he  couldn't. 
And  his  honesty  told  him  that  he  had  made  a  very 
serious  mistake  in  not  having  told  Maxwell  all  before 
matters  reached  their  crisis.     He  said  gently: 

"You  don't  want  the  marriage  to  take  place,  good 
father;  and  I  should  be  the  last  to  complain,  for  I  know 
your  motives,  your  generous  motives,  towards  myself. 
But  it  must  go  on.  It  is  fate.  And  you  may  trust  my 
honour.  Maxwell  shall  know  the  whole  history  of  Claire 
and  her  father,  if  he  has  not  already  heard  it  from  her 
own  Ups." 

"Quite  so!  quite  so!"  said  the  priest.  "You  are 
always  so  honourable." 

"And  now,"  said  Hamberton,  "you  must  give  me  all 
the  help  in  your  power  towards  rebuilding  Lisheen  Cot- 
tage and  putting  things  in  order.  You  have  great  in- 
fluence with  the  Land  League — " 

"You  have  much  greater,"  said  the  priest.  "They'll 
do  anything  for  you;  and  this  will  make  you  a  hundred 
times  more  popular." 

"But  I  must  tell  them  it  is  all  Maxwell's  generosity," 
said  Hamberton. 


GREAT  PREPARATIONS  343 

"Not  yet!"  said  Father  Cosgrove.  "That  would  spoil 
all  just  now.  They  would  hardly  beheve  such  an  ex- 
traordinary story;  and  you  know  that  just  now  there  is  a 
strong  feeling  against  him." 

"I  suppose  they're  not  sorry  for  his  arrest?" 

"Indeed  no.  It  was  just  what  they  expected,"  they 
say. 

"Human  nature  again,  always  gloating  over  mis- 
fortune. The  instinct  of  the  beast  everywhere.  The 
same  fury  that  drives  a  terrier  into  a  rat-hole,  or  a  ferret 
into  a  rabbit  warren,  is  dominant  in  the  human  heart. 
And  your  religion  hasn't  expelled  it.  The  fisherman  on 
the  river  bank,  plying  his  'gentle  craft'  of  murder,  the 
fowler  on  the  hillside  with  his  gun,  the  hunter  on  his 
horse,  the  prosecutor  in  a  court  of  what  is  called  justice, 
the  minister  plotting  war  in  his  cabinet,  the  mob  around 
a  gallows,  are  all  alike.  The  same  brute  instinct  of 
destruction  is  everywhere;  and  neither  religion,  nor 
education,  nor  progress,  nor  civilization,  can  root  it  out. 
We  are  a  hopelessly  lost  race  — " 

"There  are  good  men  in  the  world,  too,"  said  Father 
Cosgrove,  faintly. 

"A  few,"  said  Hamberton.  "There  would  be  a  good 
many  more,  if  they  would  only  adopt  the  maxims  and 
follow  the  life  of  that  gentle  prophet  that  appeared  in 
Judaea  some  centuries  ago.  But  all  that  is  dead,  dead! 
Nature  has  again  asserted  itself  against  Christ,  and  has 
won  all  along  the  line.  And  human  nature  is  hopelessly 
bad." 

His  head  had  sunk  down  upon  his  chest,  as  was  always 
the  case   when    he    was  deeply   moved    and   disturbed. 


344  LISHEEN 

Then  he  flung  aside  the  depression,  and  said,  in  a  chuckle 
of  delight: 

"Won't  it  be  rare  fun  deceiving  those  fellows?  What 
a  revelation  to  those  hounds  who  would  hunt  Maxwell 
down?  I'll  make  them  cheer  themselves  into  a  kind  of 
aphasia,  the  day  I  shall  be  able  to  reveal  to  them  that 
there  is  one  man  alive.  Won't  it  be  dramatic;  and  won't 
it  be  a  revenge?" 

"They  don't  mean  it;  they  are  ignorant!"  said  the 
priest. 

"Of  course,  of  course.  So  is  the  hawk  when  he  has  a 
sparrow  in  his  talons;  so  is  the  hound  when  he  has  his 
white  teeth  in  the  neck  of  the  hare.  Yes:  you  are  right. 
They  are  ignorant.  It  is  all  blind  instinct  —  that  terrible 
blind  force  that  evolves  everything,  and  then  selects,  by 
a  cunning  process  of  selection,  only  those  things  that  are 
fit  to  live.  But,  now,  we  must  commence  at  once.  The 
time  runs  by.  When  does  the  mighty  —  the  almighty 
League  meet?" 

"On  Sundays  at  the  school-room." 

"Then  we  shall  make  a  beginning  next  Sunday.  It  is 
a  good  work,  is  it  not  ?  and  therefore  no  violation  of  the 
Sabbath!" 

There  was  a  shght  commotion  the  following  Sunday 
at  the  Land  League,  when  in  the  midst  of  a  full  house, 
and  in  the  thick  of  a  hot  debate,  Hamberton  was  an- 
nounced. 

There  was  instant  silence;  and  all  angry  feelings  were 
hushed  in  his  presence.  He  entered  with  that  calm 
assurance  that  marks  the  EngHshman  the  wide  world 


GREAT  PREPARATIONS  345 

over,  —  in  the  hotel,  in  the  dining-hall,  in  the  picture 
gallery,  under  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  under  the  shadow 
of  the  Pyramids.  Other  races  assume  an  air  of  depreca- 
tory politeness  as  if  claiming  a  privilege ;  the  Enghshman 
owns  the  whole  world,  and  claims  it  as  a  right.  He  took 
the  chair  offered  him  obsequiously,  and  sat  down. 

"I  just  called  in  to  say,"  he  said,  without  apology  or 
excuse,  "that  the  McAuliflfes  are  to  be  reinstated  in  their 
homestead  the  moment  they  are  hberated  from  prison  — " 

There  was  a  mighty  cheer  and  many  an  exclamation: 
"God  bless  yer  'anner,  we  wouldn't  doubt  you,"  etc.,  etc. 

"And  under  circumstances  that  will  effectually  prevent 
them  from  being  disturbed  again." 

Here  there  was  a  wide  gape  of  curiosity  and  surprise. 

"Their  farm  has  been  purchased — " 

There  was  a  scowl  and  the  men  closed  up. 

"For  them." 

There  was  another  mighty  cheer.  The  excitement 
became  almost  painful. 

"I  hold  the  deed,  granting  them  fee-simple  in  Lisheen 
for  ever." 

It  was  only  the  natural  fear  of  the  "gintleman"  that 
prevented  them  from  lifting  up  Hambcrton  on  their 
shoulders,  and  chairing  him  around  the  room. 

"And  now,"  he  continued  calmly,  "I  want  you  to  do 
this.  The  friend  who  has  bought  this  place,  and  made 
it  over  for  ever  on  the  McAuUffes  ("  God  bless  him,  and 
spare  him  long")  wants  to  give  these  poor  people  a  little 
surprise.  He  wants  them  to  come  into  a  farm,  ready- 
stocked,  —  the  cows  in  the  byre,  the  pigs  in  the  sties,  the 
fowl  in  the  yard;  he  wants  the  house  rebuilt,  but  main- 


346  LISHEEN 

taining  all  its  ancient  features ;  he  wants  the  fields  ploughed 
and  harrowed  and  sown;  the  drills  full  of  potatoes,  the 
grass-corn  springing  from  the  soil.  He  wants  all  the 
fences  repaired,  new  gates  erected,  hedges  trimmed;  and 
he  wants  you,  the  Land  League  of  Lisheen,  to  do  it  all." 
Their  faces  fell.  Where  could  they  get  money  to  do  all 
that  gigantic  work? 

''I'm  afeard,  sir,  the  'frind'  is  playing  a  joke  an  us," 
said  the  Chairman.  "What  you're  afther  spakin'  about 
would  cost  about  two  hunner'  pound,  and  where's  that 
to  come  fram?" 

"Thrue,  begor,"  said  a  joker.  *"Tis  like  the  man  that 
promises  a  tousand  poun's  to  build  a  chapel,  if  every  wan 
else  will  give  a  tousand  poun's  too!" 

Here  there  was  a  general  and  most  sarcastic  laugh. 

"The  friend,^'  said  Hamberton,  with  cold  sarcasm, 
"doesn't  propose  to  do  things  half-way,  and  leave  them 
there.  He  is  prepared  to  pay  all  the  expenses  of  the 
improvements  I  have  suggested  —  all !  He  simply  wants 
the  Land  Leaguers  of  Lisheen,  who,  I  presume,  are 
patriotic,  and  ready  to  die  for  their  country,  to  give  the 
labour.  Or,  to  put  it  plainly  and  categorically,  he  will 
defray  all  the  expenses  of  building  the  house,  —  masons', 
carpenters',  and  all  tradesmen's  wages;  he  will  pay  for 
gates,  and  seeds,  and  manures  and  everything.  He 
simply  wants  to  know  will  you  plough  the  field,  trim  the 
hedges,  put  in  the  seed-com  and  potatoes  —  do,  in  a 
word,  the  agricultural  labour,  and  — "  he  added  with 
some  bitterness,  "if  you  require  it,  he  will  pay  you." 

The  bitter  words  cut  them  deeply;  but  they  could  not 
resent  it. 


GREAT  PREPARATIONS  347 

"Well,  then,  as  your  honour  has  been  so  magnanimous," 
said  the  Chairman,  "it  would  be  a  quare  thing  if  we  did 
not  second  you.  I'll  guarantee  that  my  plough  will  be 
in  the  field  to-morrow  at  six  o'clock — " 

"And  I—" 

"And  I—" 

"And  I  — "  said  a  dozen  voices. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Hamberton,  "I  leave  the  labour 
details  in  your  hands.  I  go  on  now  to  Tralee  to  see  a 
contractor  about  the  house.  I  shall  see  after  everything 
myself;  and,  when  I  am  not  able  to  be  on  the  spot,  my 
steward  will  take  my  place." 

He  was  turning  to  go;  but  they  stopped  him  at  the 
door.     One  of  them  came  forward  sheepishly,  and  said: 

"Is  it  the  desarter,  you  mane,  yer  honour?  For,  if 
it  is,  the  divil  a  wan  of  us  will  work  ondher  him." 

"Yerra,  no!  Sure  he's  in  gaol,  and  Ukely  to  remain 
there,"  said  another. 

"What  objection  have  you  to  Maxwell?"  said  Ham- 
berton. 

"He  interfered  the  day  of  the  eviction,"  said  the  Secre- 
tary, "and  previnted  a  settlement." 

"And  according  to  all  accounts,  he's  likely  to  have 
other  occupation,"  said  another. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  replied  Hamberton.  "I  won't  force 
him  upon  the  workers.  And  probably  he  won't  care  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  it.     But — " 

He  stopped,  and  looked  around  calmly  on  the  excited 
faces. 

"It  would  be  well  for  you,  good  people,  not  to  be  too 
quick  at  your  conclusions  about  things  in  general.     It  is 


348  LISHEEN 

not    pleasant    to    have    to    change    your    opinions    too 
often." 

And  he  left. 

Meanwhile,  Maxwell  had  passed  through  the  little 
trial  that  was  but  a  prehminary  to  his  release.  And 
leaving  the  police  ofi&ce,  where  there  was  no  little  confu- 
sion and  shame  and  recriminations  for  their  blundering, 
he  made  his  way  southward,  in  the  warm,  sunny  weather 
to  his  beloved  hermitage  above  Caragh  Lake.  Of  course, 
now,  when  he  had  neither  Aleck,  nor  his  tent,  he  had  to 
put  up  at  the  hotel;  but  as  there  were  only  half-a-dozen 
visitors  there,  mostly  silent  Englishmen,  he  felt  no  in- 
convenience. 

The  day  after  his  arrival,  and  when  he  had  posted  to 
Brandon  Hall  an  account  of  his  adventures  in  Tralee,  he 
set  out  in  the  early  morning,  to  visit  the  mountain  hollow 
where  he  usually  pitched  his  tent.  The  place,  of  course, 
was  quite  unchanged,  except  that,  as  he  approached,  a 
hare  jumped  from  her  form  right  in  the  very  spot  where 
his  tent  was  usually  erected.  He  sat  down  on  a  clump 
of  dry  heather,  lit  a  cigarette,  and  began  to  muse  on  the 
strange  events  of  the  past  few  months.  That  scene  in 
the  Dubhn  club,  the  forfeiture  of  the  ring,  his  own  weary 
journeys  in  search  of  employment,  his  welcome  at  Lisheen, 
the  tenderness  and  gentle  courtesy  of  the  poor  people 
with  whom  he  lodged,  their  attention  to  him  during  his 
sickness,  his  meeting  with  Hamberton  and  his  niece,  his 
betrothal,  his  arrest,  —  and  all  in  a  few  months  — 

"I  can't  say,"  he  muttered  aloud,  "'to-morrow,  and  to- 
morrow, and  to-morrow.    Thus  creeps  our  petty  pace 


GREAT  PREPARATIONS 


349 


from  day  to  day.'  'TIs  dramatic  enough  for  a  two-cent 
novel.  But,  there,  I  shall  have  to  give  up  my  Shakes- 
pearian renderings.    Theyhavegotme  into  trouble  enough." 

And  he  did  not  quite  know  whether  to  laugh  at,  or  be 
angry  with,  the  midnight  espionage  of  Debbie  and  her 
brother,  and  their  interpretation  of  his  moonlight  solilo- 
quies, as  revealed  in  her  depositions. 

"I  suppose  the  time  will  come,"  he  thought,  "when 
these  poor  people  and  their  kind  will  not  be  such  strangers 
to  Macbeth  and  Othello.  But  it  appears  far  distant,  far 
distant." 

He  rose  up,  and  looked  down  along  the  valley  to  the 
lake.  There  was  a  sKght  golden  haze  suspended  over 
vale,  and  woodland,  and  water,  and  all  was  still  beneath 
its  gauzy  folds,  unless  where,  from  far  thicket  or  copse, 
the  blackbirds  and  thrushes  were  pouring  out  their  flute- 
like melodies.  Down  along  the  ravine,  as  far  as  he  could 
see,  the  sides  were  clothed  with  yellow  gorse,  and  the  air 
was  heavy  with  the  cocoanut  perfume  that  exhales  from 
the  essential  oil  of  the  golden  petals;  and  beneath  the 
gorse,  the  hedges  were  carpeted  thickly  with  yellow 
primroses  and  purple  violets,  until  the  whole  valley  was 
a  mass  of  colour  and  light.  The  air,  up  there  on  the 
hills,  was  so  light  and  pure  it  was  a  physical  pleasure 
even  to  breathe ;  and  the  deep  azure  canopy  above  seemed 
to  hang  like  a  great  blue  dome,  flecked  with  silver,  over 
the  peaceful  temple  of  the  earth. 

Maxwell  watched  the  scene  eagerly;  and  somehow  he 
felt  that  that  pungent  tobacco  odour  was  a  desecration 
of  such  sweetness  and  purity;  for  he  flung  his  cigarette 
impatiently  away,  and  strode  slowly  up  the  mountain. 


3SO  LISHEEN 

When  he  had  leaped  the  little  bum  that  ran  sparkling 
across  the  road  in  front  of  Darby's  cottage,  he  stood  still 
for  a  moment  to  admire  the  new  coat  of  thatch  that  lay, 
warm  and  snug,  over  the  cabin.  Altogether  there  was  a 
decided  improvement  in  the  appearance  of  the  place, 
although  the  ducks  still  quacked  melodiously  as  they 
wallowed  in  the  green,  stagnant,  compost-lake  before 
the  door. 

He  entered  gaily,  with  the  usual:  "God  save  all  here!" 
He  had  now  adopted  the  manners  and  language  of  the 
country. 

The  old  woman  was  bending  over  the  fire  in  that  calm, 
meditative  attitude  so  characteristic  of  our  people.  Darby 
had,  as  usual,  tilted  back  the  sugan  chair,  and  had  his 
red  shins  almost  in  the  blaze  that  shot  up  from  the  wood 
and  turf  fire  on  the  hearth.  He  nearly  lost  his  balance, 
as  he  jumped  to  his  feet,  recognising  the  old,  familiar 
voice,  although  now  disguised  beneath  the  Irish  saluta- 
tion.    The  old  woman  never  stirred,  but  only  muttered: 

"An'  you  too,  sir!" 

"Yerra,  'tis  the  masther,"  said  Darby,  giving  his 
mother  a  poke.  And  then  he  turned  round,  his  face 
beaming  with  pleasure  and  excitement,  and  his  white 
teeth  showing  beneath  the  grin. 

"Well,  Darby,  how  are  you?    And  how  is  mother?" 

"Begor,  as  well  as  yer  'anner  'ud  wish,"  said  Darby. 
"Sure,  it  does  our  hearts  good  to  see  you." 

"Yerra,  is  it  the  masther,  Darby?"  said  the  old  woman, 
rising  slowly  from  her  seat.  "Yerra,  why  didn't  you 
tell  me  ?  Oh,  cead  mile  faille,  a  thousand  times  over,  yer 
'anner.     Sure  you're  welcome  to  our  little  cabin." 


GREAT  PREPARATIONS  351 

"Well,  I  see  you've  got  the  new  coat  of  thatch,"  said 
Maxwell.     "Does  it  keep  out  the  rain?'*- 

"Oyeh,  that  it  does,  sure  enough.  If  it  was  peltin'  cats 
and  dogs,  not  a  dhrop  'ud  come  in  now.  An'  sure  you 
have  our  prayers  night  and  day,  for  that  same." 

"I'm  afraid  Darby  doesn't  kill  himself  with  the  prayers," 
said  Maxwell.  "Tell  the  honest  truth  now,  Darby. 
Would  you  be  rather  saying  your  prayers,  or  snaring  a 
rabbit?" 

Darby  grinned,  and  blurted  out: 

"Begor,  yer  'anner,  I'd  rather  be  snarin'  the  rabbit. 
Cos  why,  me  mudder  keeps  me  too  long  on  me  knees 
with  all  the  prayers  she  do  be  sayin'." 

"I  thought  so.  Well,  look  here!  I'm  comin'  up 
again  next  month  for  a  day  or  two,  and  I'll  send  on  the 
tent.  I  won't  bring  Aleck  this  time,  as  it  will  be  too 
short.     But  I'll  leave  it  in  your  care,  whilst  I'm  away." 

Darby  was  in  Heaven. 

"I  have  another  bit  of  news  for  you.  I'm  afraid  my 
tenting-days  will  soon  be  over.  I'm  getting  married 
in  the  autumn." 

"Ah,  thin,  wisha,  may  you  be  happy,  and  may  your 
ondhertakin'  thry  with  you ;  and  may  you  get  the  sweetest 
and  best  young  lady  widin  the  four  says  of  Ireland,"  said 
the  old  woman. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  say,  Darby,  you  scoundrel?" 
said  Maxwell. 

But  Darby  was  silent.  He  had  suddenly  fallen  to 
earth.     His  face  was  a  picture  of  misery. 

"An'  must  you  give  up  the  tint,  yer  'anner,  an'  the 
fishin',  an'  the  shootin'  ?    Oh,  tare  an'  ages,"  said  he, 


352  LISHEEN 

breaking  into  tears,  "to  tink  of  giving  up  the  gun,  an'  the 
rod,  an'  the  boat,  an'  the  dog,  an'  all  the  fun!  Oh, 
wisha,  mavrone,  mavrone,  sure  'twas  the  bad  day  she 
crassed  yer  'anner's  path." 

And  Darby  turned  away  weeping.  The  idea  of  any 
man  giving  up  the  mountain,  and  the  lake,  and  the  grouse, 
and  the  whirr  of  the  partridge,  and  the  pull  on  the  rod, 
for  the  tame  felicities  of  married  Hfe  was  incredible. 

"Never  mind.  Darby,"  said  the  master,  "some  day 
you'll  be  getting  married  yourself;  and  you  and  the  old 
woman  can  come  down  with  me,  and  I'll  get  you  a  lodge; 
and  maybe,"  he  added,  "we'll  have  a  crack  at  the  wood- 
cock, or  a  pull  on  the  lake  again." 

Darby's  face  brightened.  The  old  woman's  was 
clouded. 

"Wisha,  thin,  yer  'anner,"  she  said,  "you  shouldn't  be 
puttin'  thim  thoughts  into  that  omaddn's  head.  What  a 
nice  father  of  a  family  he'd  make,  wouldn't  he  ?  Betther 
for  him  aim  his  bread,  an'  mind  his  ould  mother,  so  long 
as  she's  wid  him.     An'  sure,  me  time  is  short!" 

"Never  mind,  never  mind!"  said  Maxwell,  who  felt 
he  was  treading  on  dangerous  ground.  "  But  come  along. 
Darby,  and  let  us  look  around." 

They  descended  the  hill  together.  Darby  evidently 
was  preoccupied  vdth  deep  thought.  He  tried  to  keep 
behind  the  master  in  the  old  way.  He  felt  he  was  pre- 
suming too  much  in  walking  side  by  side. 

"Is  there  anything  the  matter.  Darby?"  said  Maxwell 
at  last.     "Are  you  sorry  I'm  coming  back  again ?" 

"Oh,  wisha,  thin,  'tis  I'm  glad,  yer  'anner.  It  lifts  the 
cockles  av  my  heart  to  see  you  in  the  owld  place.     But  — " 


GREAT  PREPARATIONS  353 

"Out  with  it,  man,"  cried  Maxwell.  "Say  anything 
you  hke." 

"Well,  thin,  yer  'anner,"  said  Darby,  blushing  till  his 
face  was  as  red  as  his  bare  chest,  "were  you  in  aimest,  or 
only  makin'  game  of  me,  whin  you  said,  'Maybe  you'd 
be  married  too'  ?" 

"Oh,  is  that  the  way  the  land  lies,  you  villain?"  said 
Maxwell.     "Come  now.     Who  are  you  thinking  of?" 

"Well,  thin,  yer  'anner,  there's  a  purty  little  shhp  of  a 
colleen  down  there  in  the  village,  an'  sure  — " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Maxwell.  "Your  eyes  are  burnt 
out  of  your  head  looking  at  her?" 

"Begor,  they  are,  yer  'anner,"  said  Darby,  scratching 
his  red  locks.  ' 

"I  suppose,  now,"  said  Maxwell,  "you  do  be  looking 
oftener  on  her  than  on  the  priest  at  Mass  on  Sunday?" 

"  Whine ver  he  does  be  sayin'  the  hard  words  that  I 
can't  undershthan',"  said  Darby,  "sure  I  can't  help 
turning  round." 

"I  see.     What's  her  name?" 

"Noney  Kavanagh,"  said  Darby,  "as  purty  a  Httle  — " 

"All  right,"  said  Maxwell.  "We  take  that  for  granted. 
Now  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

"I  was  thinkin'  —  maybe,  yer  'anner — " 

"Out  with  it,"  said  Maxwell.     "What  do  you  want?" 

"I  was  thinkin',  if  I  had  a  new  pair  of  corduroy  breeches, 
yer  'anner,  an'  brass  buttons — "  Darby  stopped. 

"Yes,  I  see.  The  corduroys  would  fetch  her.  Is  that 
it?" 

"Well,  you  see,  yer  'anner,  she  do  be  making  game  of 
me  sometimes  about  these  'sthramers';  and  since  Phil 
23 


354  LISHEEN 

Doody  got  a  new  shirt  wid  money  his  sisther  sint  him 
from  America,  she  won't  look  at  me  at  all,  at  all." 

"Well,  then,  we'll  beat  that  fellow  hollow.  Darby," 
said  Maxwell,  "What  would  you  say  to  a  whole  new  suit 
of  tweed?— " 

"Oh,  tare  an'  ages,  that  would  be  too  much  intirely, 
yer  'anner.  An'  sure  if  I  turned  out  so  grand,  the  nabours 
are  bad  enough  to  say  I  killed  or  robbed  some  wan." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Maxwell.  "We'll 
get  the  corduroys  —  and  maybe  they'd  be  more  service- 
able than  the  tweed  up  here;  and  we'll  also  get  a  new 
frieze  coat  with  the  biggest  buttons  that  can  be  got  for 
money;  and,  look  here,  Darby,  you'll  have  to  get  some 
shirts—" 

"Yerra,  for  fwhat,  yer  'anner?"  asked  Darby.  "I 
don't  be  a  bit  cowld." 

"I  know  that,"  said  Maxwell.  "And  probably  I'm 
putting  you  in  for  an  attack  of  pneumonia,  that  may  end 
in  consumption.  But  you  see,  Darby,  I'll  have  to  intro- 
duce you  to  my  wife;  and  when  you  come  down  to  the 
lodge,  you'll  be  meeting  people  that  are  hampered  by 
civilization,  and  —  somehow,  you  know,  they  like  to  see 
—  well,  —  a  shirt-front." 

"Do  they  thin?"  said  Darby,  in  surprise.  "Well, 
whatever  yer  'anner  Hkes.  Sure,  I'd  do  more  than  that 
for  yer  'anner." 

Maxwell  smiled. 

"I  know  you  would,"  said  he.  "AUhough  I  admit 
you  are  making  a  sacrifice  now.  But,  tell  me,  what  about 
the  wedding?  Won't  you  want  a  gallon  of  whisky,  and 
something  to  give  Noney,  and  — " 


GREAT  PREPARATIONS  355 

"  Oh,  begor,  yer  'anner  is  too  good  intirely,"  said  Darby, 
who  began  to  fear  that  this  generosity  was  too  excessive 
to  be  genuine.  "Maybe,  it  'ud  be  as  well  to  ketch  the 
hare  fust?" 

"Oh,  never  fear  that,"  said  Maxwell.  "To  make  a 
long  story  short,  I  calculate  you'll  want  about  five  pounds 
to  win  Noney,  to  furnish  a  little  house,  and  to  have  a 
decent  wedding.     I'll  give  it  to  you  — " 

"Oh,  yer  'anner,  that's  too  much  out  an'  out.  Yerra, 
what  'ud  I  be  doin'  wid  all  that  money  ?  An'  sure  Noney 
tould  me,  that  her  mudder  'ud  give  her  a  feather-bed,  an' 
blankets,  an'  half  the  chickens  in  her  yard  the  day  she  was 
well  married." 

"So  ye'er  been  talking  it  over,"  said  Maxwell.  "That's 
right.  I  tell  you.  Darby,  we'll  settle  Doody.  We'll 
leave  that  fellow  without  a  feather  in  his  cap.  Now,  will 
you  take  the  money  now,  or  shall  I  send  it?" 

"Oh,  begor,  yer  'anner,  I  wouldn't  tetch  it  for  the 
wurruld.  Where  the  divil  could  I  hide  it?  The  ould 
'uman  'ud  search  me  high  and  low  for  it." 

"You  couldn't  hide  it?"  said  Maxwell. 

"Av  I  swallowed  it  she'd  see  it,"  said  Darby.  "She'll 
sarch  every  bit  av  me  now  whin  I  goes  in  to  see  did  I  get 
anythin'  from  yer  'anner." 

"Can't  you  hide  it  outside,  you  omad^  ?"  said  Maxwell. 
"Aren't  there  a  hundred  holes  where  you  could  put  it?" 

"Yerra,  but,  yer  'anner,  sure  I'd  never  have  a  wink  of 
shleep  agin,  thinkin'  that  somewan  would  shtale  it.  Oh, 
Lord,  no!     'Twould  never  do  at  all,  at  all." 

"Well,  thin,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'U  do.  I'll  give  the 
money  to  the  priest  to  keep  for  you  until  the  day  you're 


356  LISHEEN 

married;  and  then  you  can  snap  your  fingers  at  the  old 
woman." 

"The  very  thing,  God  bless  yer  'anner.  But  — "  his  face 
fell,  as  a  new  difficulty  presented  itself.  "Father  Tom 
is  the  divil  himself  agin  the  dhrink.  Av  he  thought  we 
were  goin'  to  have  a  sup  of  whisky  at  the  wedding,  he'd 
pull  the  chapel  down  an  us." 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  tell  him;  and  sure  you  needn't 
say  much  about  it.  When  'tis  all  over,  he  can't  do  much 
harm." 

"N  —  no,"  said  Darby,  doubtingly.  Then  a  bright 
thought  struck  him,  and  he  cheered  up. 

"'Twill  be  worth  a  power  an'  all  of  money,"  he  said, 
"wid  the  priest  whin  yer  'anner  spakes  for  me;  and 
maybe  — " 

"Maybe  what?"  said  Maxwell. 

"Maybe,  if  you  axed  him,  he'd  put  in  a  good  word  for 
me  wid  Noney." 

"I  will,  to  be  sure,"  said  Maxwell,  "though  perhaps 
he  won't  care  to  be  a  matchmaker.     Anything  else?" 

"Maybe  yer  'anner  'ud  give  Jack  Clancy,  the  tailor, 
the  ordher  for  the  corduroys?" 

"All  right.  And  the  coat?  But  what  about  the 
measurement?" 

"Ah,  he  needn't  mind  about  that,"  said  Darby.  "Sure, 
yer  'anner  can  tell  him  make  the  shuit  for  a  bye  of  eighteen ; 
and  sure,  av  it  is  a  couple  of  inches  aither  way,  'twill 
make  no  matther." 

"All  right,  Darby.  'Twill  be  all  right.  Meantime, 
I'll  send  up  the  tent.  I'm  only  sorry  I  can't  dance  at 
your  wedding.     But,  we'll  settle  Doody,  won't  we?" 


GREAT  PREPARATIONS  357 

"Begor,  we  will,  yer  'anner.  Long  life  to  yer  'anner; 
and  may  you  reign  long." 

The  two  conspirators  parted,  Maxwell  for  Brandon 
Hall,  and  Darby  for  home.  But  before  he  reached  it 
he  executed  many  a  pas  seul  on  the  mountain  road,  to  the 
astonishment  of  sundry  rooks  and  jackdaws,  who  gravely 
cawed  their  disapprobation.  But  he  couldn't  help  it. 
His  heart  was  as  light  as  a  feather;  and  now  and  again 
he  stopped,  whistled  "The  wind  that  shakes  the  barley," 
or  "The  top  of  Cork  Road,"  and  danced  to  his  own 
accompaniment,  flicking  his  fingers  in  sheer  deUght  above 
his  head. 

But  when  he  entered  the  cabin  he  was  as  serious  as  an 
owl. 

"Is  the  masther  gone?"  said  his  mother. 

"He  is,"  said  Darby,  sulkily. 

"What  did  he  give  ye?" 

"Divil  a  copper.     Not  a  thraneen  of  a, sixpence  even!" 

"Don't  be  decavin'  me,  ma  bouchal!  I  know  the 
masther  better.     Come  here,  an'  lemme  thry  you!" 

"Here,  thin,"  said  Darby,  "as  you  won't  believe  me 
worrd ! " 

The  good  mother  felt  his  pockets,  and  his  tattered 
sleeves,  and  his  trousers.  She  then  made  him  open  his 
mouth  and  show  his  teeth  and  gums.  She  found 
nothing. 

"Lift  up  yer  feet,  you  omadan!" 

Darby  raised  his  broad  feet,  the  soles  of  which  were  as 
thick  as  leather.  There  was  nothing  there.  She  went 
back  to  her  seat,  grumbling. 

"'Tis  quare,"  she  said.     "I  suppose  he's  getting  close." 


358  LISHEEN 

"Didn't  you  hear  his  'anner  sayin'  that  he  was  goin' 
to  be  married  ?"  said  Darby. 

"I  did.     I  suppose  he's  saving  up  for  the  wife  ?" 
"Av  coorse  he  is,"  said  Darby,  winking  softly  at  him- 
self. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 


A  BAPTISM   OF  TEARS 


Into  the  eyes  of  all  vanquished  and  despairful  things, 
human  or  other,  there  comes  a  wistful  look,  that  seems 
to  denote  the  end  of  the  struggle,  and  to  say:  "Do  what 
you  will  now!  I  am  conquered."  You  see  it  in  the 
poor  speckled  thing  that  has  been  dragged  from  its  ele- 
ment, and  lies  gasping  on  the  wet  grass  above  the  river; 
you  see  it  in  the  fiercest  brute  that  has  fought  and  bit, 
and  trampled  for  hfe,  and  now  lies  still  at  the  feet  of  his 
conqueror,  awaiting  the  final  blow.  The  great  artist 
put  it  in  the  stone  eyes  of  the  "  Dying  Gladiator,"  and  the 
suppliant  look  of  "Laocoon";  the  mightier  Artist  puts  it 
in  the  eyes  of  every  dying  and  conquered  thing,  to  win 
mercy  perhaps  from  his  conquerer. 

Even  such  was  the  look  that  fell  on  Mabel  Willoughby's 
face  from  the  eyes  of  her  husband,  when  late  in  that 
eventful  night,  after  weary  watchings,  he  recovered  con- 
sciousness, looked  up,  closed  his  eyes  to  collect  his 
thoughts,  remembered  all,  and  looked  again.  He  had 
been  removed  to  his  own  room  after  the  Doctor's  visit; 
and  Mabel,  with  a  certain  love  and  m.uch  loathing,  had 
gone  in  and  out  during  the  night,  watching  and  fearing 
the  moment  when  his  soul  would  come  back  again. 
She  didn't  know  what  to  think,  or  what  to  do.  She 
could  only  hope  in  a  vague,  inarticulate  way,  which  she 

359 


360  LISHEEN 

would  not  express  to  her  own  mind,  that  he  might  pass 
away  in  that  sleep  or  coma,  and  solve  the  dread  problem 
that  now  confronted  her.  For  the  Doctor's  words  left 
no  room  now  for  doubt.  She  had  expressed  her  terrible 
suspicions;  and  they  had  been  confirmed.  Yes,  she  had 
been  inveigled  into  marriage  with  a  man  who  had  been 
a  leper.  What  other  loathsome  things  lay  behind  that 
revleation  she  dared  not  conjecture.  She  knew  enough 
to  understand  that  the  disease  was  ineradicable;  and  the 
sense  of  the  horrible  injustice  done  to  her,  and  the  sense 
of  terrible  despair,  fought,  side  by  side,  for  the  mastery 
of  her  soul  during  the  long  watches  of  the  night.  The 
gas-jet  was  singing  over  her  head;  now  and  again  came 
the  sound  of  the  muffled  tread  of  the  servants  on  the  soft 
carpet  outside  her  door.  Now  and  again,  too,  night  noises, 
the  barking  of  a  far-off  dog,  or  the  rumbling  of  a  waggon, 
came  to  her  ears.  But  she  sat  Hke  one  petrified,  staring 
bhndly  at  nothing;  and  sometimes  going  to  the  mirror  to 
ask  the  white  face  shown  there  whether  she  was  not  in 
reality  mad.  Like  one  in  a  dream,  or  a  sleep-walker, 
she  stepped  from  time  to  time  from  her  room,  and  passed 
into  her  husband's  where  some  maids  were  replacing  and 
wetting,  wetting  and  replacing,  the  brown  paper  saturated 
with  toilet  vinegar,  that  was  supposed  to  reheve  the  fore- 
head of  the  unconscious  man.  The  injured  woman 
would  look  down  on  the  white  face  and  watch  the  laboured 
breathing;  then  return  to  her  own  room  to  resume  the 
posture  of  statue-like  immobility,  until  the  desire  of 
breaking  the  horrible  spell  came  upon  her  again.  Once, 
when  looking  over  the  past,  and  recalUng  all  that  hap- 
pened prior  to  her  marriage,  the  remembrance  of  the 


A  BAPTISM  OF  TEARS  361 

Indian  letter  smote  her.  She  went  over  to  her  escritoire, 
and  took  it  out,  and  turned  up  the  gas-jet  to  read. 

Oh!  It  was  so  prophetic  —  that  Indian  letter!  How 
every  word  seemed  to  rise  out  of  the  note  paper,  and 
smite  her  with  its  deadly  truth! 

"Ah,  yes,  that  'Nevermore!'  It  means  you  cannot  go 
back  to  the  stalls  or  the  box  again  —  never  again  be  a 
spectator  of  the  mighty  drama.     Only  an  actor." 

"Tme,  true,"  she  thought,  as  she  held  the  letter  in  her 
lap.  "Nevermore!  nevermore!  There  is  no  going  back. 
There  is  no  unlearning  the  one  terrible  lesson  of  Hfe!" 

She  read  on. 

"Who  wants  to  be  happy?  No  one.  At  least,  I  see 
half  the  world  throwing  happiness  to  the  winds." 

"How  true,"  she  thought.  "I,  even  I,  how  have  I 
wasted  and  squandered  my  years  ?  I  was  happy,  at  least, 
comparatively  so,  because  I  had  no  horror,  no  dread; 
only  a  craving,  which  I  should  have  suppressed.  But  I 
didn't  know;  I  didn't  know.  My  God,  if  there  be  a  God, 
why  is  there  no  test  for  souls,  no  means  of  knowing  the 
awful  spirits  with  which  fate  insists  on  uniting  us?" 

She  took  up  the  letter  again,  and  read : 

"Yes,  yes!  These  poor  benighted  papists,  wrong  in 
nearly  everything  else,  are  right  in  holding  the  marriage 
tie  inviolable.  Nay,  there  should  be  a  strict  law  that 
marriage  shall  not  be  dissolved  even  in  death,  because  it 
is  enough  for  each  human  being  to  have  one  world  re- 
vealed, and  no  more." 

"Very  true,  dear  Edith,"  was  Mabel's  comment,  "so 
far  as  contracting  new  ties  is  concerned.  God  knows 
I  have  had  enough  of  the  experiment.    And  surely,  if 


362  LISHEEN 

this  —  this  —  man  would  dare  drag  another  unhappy 
girl  into  such  a  frightful  union,  no  hell  could  be  deep 
enough  to  punish  him!  But  why  inviolable?  We  shall 
see.  If  there  be  law  or  justice  in  this  country,  Mabel 
Outram  will  be  Mabel  Willoughby  again  before  many 
months.  The  doctor  knows  all,  and  he  can  testify. 
And  what  is  drink,  or  cruelty,  or  infidehty,  or  incom- 
patibiUty  of  temperament  to  this?" 

But  as  her  thoughts  ran  over  the  dread  possibihty  of  a 
divorce  with  all  its  shame  and  public  exposure;  and,  as 
the  poor  girl  thought:  "If  I  dared  bring  the  matter  into 
court,  what  a  dread  sentence  I  should  pass  on  myself  — 
a  leper's  wife,  and  therefore,  herself,  a  possible  leper," 
her  heart  shrank.  She  was  beaten  back  from  the  only 
loophole  of  escape  into  the  dread  slough  of  misery 
where  she  found  the  actual  even  less  dreadful  than  the 
possible. 

"I  close  it  with  a  few  bitter  tears!"  ran  the  last  para- 
graph of  the  letter. 

"Oh,  Edith,  Edith,"  sobbed  the  poor  girl,  as  her  tears 
fell  fast  upon  the  letter.  "So  do  I!  But  why,  oh  why, 
didn't  you  speak  more  plainly  to  me?" 

After  a  while,  she  folded  the  letter  and  laid  it  aside; 
and  went  in  again  to  see  the  man  who  had  decided  her 
fate  for  Kfe  in  such  a  brutal  and  unscrupulous  fashion. 
He  seemed  easier  in  his  breathing;  and  the  maid  said: 

"Don't  take  it  too  much  to  heart.  Ma'am.  I  think  he 
is  coming  round.  He  was  moaning  now,  and  he  muttered 
something.     I  think  he  was  calling  your  name." 

What  terrible,  if  unconscious,  irony!  she  thought. 

"I  wish  you  could  have  some  sleep,  Kate,"  said  the 


A  BAPTISM  OF  TEARS  363 

unhappy  woman.  "If  you  would  lie  down  for  a  few 
hours,  I  could  watch." 

"You  want  sleep  more  yourself,  Ma'am,"  said  the  girl. 
"If  you  cry  and  give  way  to  your  grief  for  Mr.  Outram, 
you'll  make  yourself  sick.  Try  and  lie  down;  and  I'll 
call  you,  if  there's  any  change." 

And  Mabel  went  back  to  her  lonely  watch  again. 
Sleep?  There  was  no  sleep,  she  thought,  for  her  ever- 
more. 

She  then  did  a  fooHsh  thing  —  foolish  for  any  one ; 
thrice  foolish  for  one  in  her  condition  of  mind.  She 
wanted  to  know,  —  forgetting  that  "he  who  addeth  to 
his  knowledge,  addeth  also  to  his  sorrow."  She  crept 
like  a  guilty  creature  downstairs,  passed  into  the  dining- 
room,  opened  a  little  comer  bookcase,  and  took  out  a 
volume  of  a  certain  Encyclopaedia,  marked  LAV  —  PAS. 
With  a  certain  feeling  still  of  guilt,  or  rather  with  the 
nervousness  with  which  one  plunges  into .  a  dangerous 
course  of  action,  she  took  the  heavy  volume  upstairs,  and 
with  trembling  fingers  opened  it  at  the  dread  word: 
LEPROSY.  Fearful,  yet  covetous  of  knowledge  of  the 
dreadful  thing,  she  read  down  the  long,  dismal  column, 
read  of  its  probable  causes,  which  made  her  shudder,  its 
symptoms,  its  consequences,  its  different  species  with  all 
their  dread  manifestations  of  putrid  flesh,  and  rotting 
limbs,  and  swollen  features,  and  dropping  joints  —  the 
living  death,  which  is  so  much  the  worse  than  death, 
inasmuch  as  it  is  accompanied  by  the  dread  crucifixion 
of  an  acute  consciousness  and  an  incurable  despair. 
It  was  all  more  horrible  than  she  had  imagined;  and  to 
make  the  horror  more  terrible  and  tragic,  she  read  of  the 


364  LISHEEN 

dread  but  infallible  contagion,  and  how  the  disease 
may  lurk  unseen  for  years,  but  was  certain  to  manifest 
itself  in  the  end.  And  so  the  governments  of  the  world 
had  decreed  that  whoever  once  placed  foot  on  an  infected 
island  or  other  leper  enclosure  was  thenceforth  ostracized 
from  his  kind  for  ever;  and  the  laws  of  the  world,  consider- 
ing always  the  safety  of  the  majority,  heeded  not  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  few,  but  made  them  the  victims  for  the  race. 

It  was  all  sad,  terrible.  Mabel  looked  at  her  white 
fingers,  as  if  she  already  beheld  them  swollen  by  disease; 
touched  her  ears,  as  if  she  foresaw  the  time  when  these 
tender  little  lobes  would  drop  away  in  dread  decomposi- 
tion. She  had  not  the  grace  to  pray :  My  God !  Thy  will 
be  done!  She  loathed  herself  for  the  fate  which  her 
imagination  assured  her  was  inevitably  hers.  But  lo! 
in  the  very  climax  of  her  agony,  there  came  a  voice, 
though  but  a  word,  of  reUef. 

She  had  read  down  to  the  end  of  the  article,  and  was 
about  to  close  the  book,  when  a  further  paragraph: 
''Leprosy  in  the  Middle  Ages"  caught  her  eye.  She  read 
on,  read  the  many  ceremonies,  some  awe-inspiring,  some 
consolatory,  with  which  the  Mother- Church  sequestrated 
the  victims  of  the  dread  disease  from  their  kind,  and  yet 
surrounded  them  with  that  Christhke  pity  and  love 
which  made  them  not  so  much  the  victims,  as  the  victors, 
of  the  awful  malady.  She  read  of  great  things  done  by 
lepers  in  the  depths  of  their  exile  from  humanity;  of 
saints,  canonized  by  the  Church,  who  had  been  lepers; 
of  great  poets,  whose  songs  resounded  throughout  Ger- 
many, whilst  they  toiled  away  in  the  leper-hut,  and  rang 
the  leper-bell;  and  —  her  heart  stood  still  as  she  read: 


A  BAPTISM  OF  TEARS  365 

"In  the  great  majority  of  cases,  we  are  assured  that  the 
wives  of  these  unhappy  victims  elected  to  go  with  them 
into  the  tombs  and  leper-haunts,  rather  than  be  separated 
from  those  they  so  deeply  loved." 

Her  white  pure  hand  lay  open  on  the  page,  as  she 
looked  up,  and  tried  to  picture  to  her  imagination  what 
that  meant. 

She  saw  the  stricken  creature  rise  up  from  the  funereal 
ceremonies  in  the  Church,  which  were  so  regulated  as  to 
assume  that  leprosy  was  a  kind  of  social  death,  and 
which  therefore  resembled  in  the  prayers,  the  exorcisms, 
the  enshrouding  the  leprous  body  in  a  black  pall,  etc., 
the  ExequicE,  or  burial  rites  of  the  actual  dead.  She  saw 
him  go  forth,  sounding  his  leper-bell,  as  a  warning  to  all 
healthy  and  sane  creatures  to  step  aside  from  his  path, 
and  avoid  the  contagion  that  exhaled  from  his  diseased 
body.  She  saw  him  go  forth  from  the  haunts  of  men, 
into  remote  and  sohtary  places,  amongst  the  wild  things 
of  field  and  forest.  She  saw  him  excommunicated  from 
his  kind,  and  sentenced  to  a  banishment  where  no  hu- 
man voice  would  greet  him,  no  human  presence  cheer 
him  ever  again.  And  she  saw  those  brave,  loving  women, 
allowed  by  a  merciful  dispensation  to  share  such  awful 
sorrows,  cheerfully  electing  to  give  up  home  and  kindred, 
and  all  the  sweet,  wholesome  surroundings  of  life,  to  bury 
themselves  in  those  desert  places,  to  wait  upon,  and  watch, 
and  tend  those  stricken  wretches,  with  no  help  but  their 
great,  all-conquering  love,  and  their  subhme  faith  in  the 
Invisible  Powers  that  had  inspired  it.  And  for  them  no 
hope  of  return  to  friends  or  children,  even  after  the  death 
of  the  leprous  victim.     By  that  subUme  act  of  renuncia- 


366  LISHEEN 

tion  they  sentenced  themselves  to  perpetual  and  solitary 
banishment  from  their  kind. 

"It  was  magnificent — appalling;  heroic  —  insane; 
madness  —  glory;  subHmity  —  folly" ;  thought  Mabel. 
Then: 

"These  things  were  for  other  ages  than  ours,"  she 
reflected.  "These  were  ages  of  faith  and  chivalry,  of 
greatness  and  heroism,  though  they  were  Dark  Ages. 
We  have  changed  all  that." 

"But,"  the  thought  would  recur,  "surely  a  woman  is  a 
woman;  and  love  is  love.  Can  I  tear  it  from  my  heart, 
feeble  though  it  be?  And  am  I  not  called  to  bear,  not 
expatriation,  not  soHtude,  but  only  patience  and  tolera- 
tion? If  I  go  into  open  court,  and  expose  him  and  my- 
self to  the  curious  and  dehghted  gaze  of  the  pubHc,  what 
do  I  gain  ?  Social  ostracism.  I  proclaim  myself  a  leper. 
If  I  slink  away  with  father  into  some  remote  and  solitary 
place,  shall  I  not  carry  with  me  the  fatal  consciousness 
that  I  have  shirked  my  duty?  No,  Mabel,  there  is 
nothing  for  thee,  as  for  most  mortals,  but  to  endure.  Let 
me  examine,  have  I  as  much  love  left  for  Ralph  as  will 
help  me  to  do  so?" 

Then  she  went  over  the  period  of  her  courtship,  her 
marriage,  his  Uttle  acts  of  courtesy,  the  deference,  amount- 
ing to  worship,  that  he  always  showed  her  in  society;  his 
little  presents  from  time  to  time,  "the  little,  nameless, 
unremembered  acts  of  love";  and  gradually  she  felt  her- 
self softening  towards  the  stricken  creature;  and  some- 
thing, if  not  love,  at  least  bearing  a  resemblance  to  it  in 
the  shape  of  duty,  came  uppermost,  and  revealed  her  to 
herself  as  something  superior  to  a  mere  queen  of  fashion. 


A  BAPTISM  OF  TEARS  367 

She  began  to  feel  for  the  first  time  a  woman;  and  to 
recognise  that  that  sacred  aspect  of  her  nature  and  charac- 
ter was  higher  and  holier  than  she  had  yet  conceived. 

The  night  was  now  wearing  to  the  dawn,  when  she 
arose,  closed  the  book,  and  knelt.  She  knew  then  that 
she  had  never  prayed  before.  She  had  been  to  church, 
had  read  the  service,  had  joined  her  voice  in  hymn  and 
anthem,  had  studied  the  intonations  of  the  preacher; 
but  she  had  never  prayed.  She  had  never  realized  the 
supernatural  —  the  powers  that  lie  hid  beyond  the  senses, 
and  yet  exercise  so  marvellous  an  influence  on  human 
life.  But  now,  as  she  knelt,  there  in  the  silence  of  the 
dying  night,  with  the  faint  dawn  creeping  through  the 
unshuttered  window,  she  prayed  against  herself,  and  for 
herself.  Against  herself,  —  against  her  pride  and  pas- 
sion so  fearfully  revenged  and  humihated;  against  her 
revolt  from  obligations  deliberately  contracted;  against 
the  cowardice  that  would  make  her  break  sacred  ties, 
even  under  so  tremendous  a  provocation.  And  she 
prayed  for  herself,  for  strength  and  endurance  and  love 
to  enable  her  to  conquer  all  physical  re\ailsion,  all  her 
loathing  and  her  fear,  and  be  to  the  wretched  and  afflicted, 
if  dishonest  creature,  who  is  called  her  husband,  a  help 
and  a  solace  during  the  bitter  remainder  of  their  Hves. 

Then,  fortified  by  the  effort,  she  rose  up,  and  passed 
into  his  room. 

"I  think,  Ma'am,"  said  the  maid,  "that  Mr.  Outram 
is  coming  round.  He  seemed  to  open  his  eyes,  and  look 
around  as  if  seeking  someone;  and  then  closed  them 
again." 

They  watched  and  waited;  and  after  an  interval  the 


368  LISHEEN 

eyes  of  the  sick  man  opened,  and,  as  we  have  said,  rested 
on  the  face  of  his  wife.  And  he  seemed  satisfied.  He 
only  stared  and  stared  and  stared;  and,  when  she  drew 
aside,  and  went  over  for  some  cordials,  he  followed  her 
with  the  same  wistful,  yearning  look.  It  seemed  to  ask 
for  mercy  and  compassion;  for  forgiveness,  and  forget- 
fulness  of  aught  that  could  be  remembered  against 
him;  for  a  plenary  absolution  and  a  wiping  out  of  the 
dread  past. 

And  Mabel,  haunted  and  touched  by  that  look,  and 
by  all  her  recent  thoughts,  came  over,  and  bent  down, 
and  touched  with  her  Hps  his  forehead  and  his  mouth; 
•and  then,  as  if  the  pent-up  feeUngs  of  her  soul  had  swelled 
and  laboured,  and  burst  their  barriers,  she  broke  out  into 
hysterical  sobbing,  and  a  baptism  of  hot  tears  rained 
down  on  her  husband's  face. 

Kate,  the  maid,  said  to  her  fellow-servants  in  the  course 
of  the  afternoon,  that  there  is  no  knowing  people  at  all, 
at  all.  She  thought  that  Ralph  Outram  and  his  wife 
cared  not  much  for  each  other,  as  far  as  her  lynx  eyes 
could  judge.  And  behold,  this  accident,  she  said,  re- 
vealed everything. 

"An'  who  would  ever  a'  thought  that  Mrs.  Outram 
could  cry?    Yet,  she  did,  cried  Hke  a  child,"  said  Kate. 

But  the  others  expressed  their  increduhty.  It  was 
play-acting,  they  said. 

And  Kate  waxed  indignant,  not  for  her  mistress;  but 
for  the  imputation  that  she  had  been  taken  in  so  easily. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 


LISHEEN 


The  three  months  swiftly  swung  round;  and  the  time 
for  the  liberation  and  triumph  of  the  evicted  owners  of 
Lisheen  was  at  hand.  Immense  preparations  were  made 
on  all  sides  for  the  great  event;  and  it  was  decided  that 
the  occasion  was  one  that  demanded  a  great  public 
demonstration. 

Pierce  and  Debbie  McAuHffe  had  been  dismissed  from 
prison  a  week  prior  to  the  Hberation  of  their  parents;  but 
they  were  detained  by  friendly  hands  in  the  city,  on  the 
plea  that  all  should  go  home  together.  But  they  were 
kept  quite  ignorant  of  all  the  important  events  that  had 
occurred  during  their  imprisonment.  They  didn't  know 
they  had  a  home  to  go  to;  and  Pierce  was  speculating 
about  employment  in  Tralee. 

When  at  length  the  great  day  arrived,  the  town  was 
thronged  with  cars  and  vehicles  of  every  description  — 
side-cars,  country-carts,  covered  cars,  traps;  and  the 
whole  country-side  seemed  to  have  poured  in  its  popula- 
tion to  take  part  in  the  great  ovation  that  was  to  be  given 
to  the  now  triumphant  victims  of  landlordism.  A  depu- 
tation was  drawn  up  outside  the  prison  gate;  and  the 
moment  the  poor  old  people  appeared  there  was  a  mighty 
shout  of  welcome;  and  to  their  infinite  confusion,  an 
address  was  read  by  the  Secretary  of  the  League,  lauding 
24  369 


370  LISHEEN 

their  valour  to  the  skies.  But  not  a  word  about  the 
triumph  and  surprise  that  awaited  them. 

A  few  times  Pierce  tried  to  get  through  the  impenetrable 
secrecy  that  seemed  to  surround  everything  connected 
with  their  liberation;  and  he  began  to  ask  impatiently: 

"What  is  it  all  about?  Where  are  we  going?  Sure, 
we  have  no  home  now?" 

But  he  was  always  met  with  the  answer: 

"Whist,  ye  divil!  Can't  ye  wait,  and  see  what  the 
nabours  have  done  for  ye?" 

At  most,  they  expected  the  shelter  of  a  Land  League 
hut. 

After  much  colloguing,  and  congratulations  and  toasts 
pledged  twenty  times  over,  yet  still  with  the  impenetrable 
veil  of  secrecy  hanging  over  everything,  the  triumphant 
cavalcade  got  under  weigh.  First  came  the  local  Lisheen 
Fife-and-Drum  Band  in  a  wagonette,  over  which  a  green 
flag,  faded  but  unconquered,  was  proudly  floating. 
Next  came  a  side  car  with  Owen  and  Mrs.  McAuhffe,  and 
two  intimate  friends.  Then  a  succession  of  cars,  every 
occupant  waving  green  boughs.  Here  and  there  was  an 
amateur  musician,  with  a  concertina  or  accordion,  play- 
ing for  the  bare  life,  and  in  an  independent  manner;  for 
whilst  the  Band  thundered  out  "God  save  Ireland!"  the 
minor  instrumentaHsts  played  "The  Wearing  of  the 
Green,"  or  "The  Boys  of  Wexford."  In  the  centre  of 
the  procession  there  was  another  waggonette,  in  which 
Pierce  and  Debbie  had  prominent  places ;  and  the  remain- 
ing mile  or  two  was  occupied  with  all  the  other  vehicles, 
each  smothered  in  a  little  forest  of  decorations. 


LISHEEN  371 

Now  and  again,  the  old  couple,  or  Pierce  or  Debbie, 
would  ask  wonderingly: 

"What  is  it  all  about?  Where  are  we  going  at  all,  at 
all?" 

But  the  answer  was: 

"Nabocklish!  or  "Bid-a-hust,"^  or  some  English  equiv- 
alent. 

At  last  they  came  to  the  old  familiar  place,  where 
formerly  a  rickety,  tumbled-down  old  gate,  swinging  on 
creaking  hinges,  opened  into  the  boreen  that  led  to  the 
house.  Here  the  cars  drew  aside,  so  that  the  McAuliffes 
might  come  up  and  enter  their  home  together.  The  old 
people  drew  aside,  refusing  to  recognise  in  the  cemented 
and  chamfered  pillars,  and  in  the  blue,  iron  gate,  the  en- 
trance to  their  home.  But  they  had  to  dismount,  and  walk 
up  the  stoned  and  gravelled  passage,,  under  the  trim  haw- 
thorn hedges  bursting  with  foHage,  and  already  showing 
the  autumn  haws,  into  the  yard  that  fronted  their  dwelling. 

"Where  are  ye  bringing  us  to  at  all,  at  all?"  the  poor 
old  woman  would  ask.     "Sure  this  isn't  Lishcen!" 

"Whist,  will  you  ?  Can't  you  wait  till  the  play  is  over  ?" 
was  the  reply. 

But  when  they  came  into  the  yard,  and  saw  instead 
of  the  fragrant  manure  heap  a  plot  of  grass  neatly  laid 
out  and  bordered  with  huge  stones,  limewashed  and 
irregular;  and  when  they  saw  the  old  thatched  bams  no 
more,  but  well-built  stone  and  slated  houses,  where  seven 
rich  cows  were  stalled;  and  when  they  saw  a  high,  well- 

^Na  bac  /m  =  Don't  bother  me!  Brod  do  /mi// = Shut  up! 
Silence! 


372  LISHEEN 

thatched  home  before  them,  with  large  windows  instead 
of  the  wretched  holes  that  formerly  let  in,  or  were  sup- 
posed to  let  in,  light  and  air,  then  astonishment  knew  no 
bounds. 

All  the  neighbours  had  congregated  in  the  yard  and 
stood  on  the  ditches,  to  see  the  "coming  home"  of  the 
victims  of  landlord  greed,  and  as  they  entered  the  yard 
there  was  a  mighty  cheer  that  rent  the  heavens,  and  a 
chorus  of  "Cead  mile  failtes"  and  "Welcome  home!" 
that  stunned  the  poor  people  with  its  heartiness  and 
sympathy. 

Then  Hugh  Hamberton  and  his  ward  came  forward 
and  stood  beneath  the  hntel  of  the  door,  and  the  former 
putting  up  his  hand  to  command  silence,  and  drown  the 
tremendous  cheer  with  which  his  presence  was  hailed, 
there  was  an  instant  hush  —  the  hush  of  great  expectation 
and  dehght. 

Hamberton  looked  around  slowly  and  contemptuously 
on  the  multitude  that  was  thickly  wedged  together,  and 
his  silence  made  theirs  the  deeper.  Then  he  spoke  in  the 
calm,  even  way  that  Englishmen  affect,  and  although  he 
was  good-humoured  and  genial,  he  could  not  restrain  a 
certain  tone  of  disdain  that  accompanied  his  words. 

"My  friends,"  he  said,  "a  certain  English  statesman 
has  declared  his  behef  that  the  Irish  are  a  race  of  lunatics, 
and  that  this  country  is  one  huge  but  not  well-protected 
asylum  (great  laughter);  and  another  English  statesman 
has  registered  his  opinion  that  the  Irish  are  a  race  of 
grown-up  children  (much  laughter,  but  not  so  great).  To 
this  latter  opinion  I  am  disposed  to  incline.  You're  a 
wonderful  people  for  seeing  around  a  corner  or  watching 


LISHEEN 


373 


what  is  occurring  at  the  poles,  but  you  can't  see  straight 
before  you,  or  what  is  under  your  eyes.  {Slight  tittering 
and  rising  expectation.)  For  example,  you  have  rushed 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  reinstatement  of  this  poor 
family  in  their  farm  and  home  is  my  work.  {Cries  of 
*'  So  it  is,  yer  'anner;  Hwas  you  did  it!  God  bless  yoiiT') 
You  were  never  more  mistaken  in  your  Uves.  All  that  I 
did  was  to  act  as  a  kind  of  agent  or  supervisor  for  the 
man  that,  in  a  spirit  of  unbounded  generosity,  has  brought 
about  this  happy  event.  I  am  pleased  to  be  able  to  claim 
that  much  for  myself,  but  no  more.  {Cries:  "  You^d  do  it, 
if  you  could.  'Twasn't  from  want  of  the  le/ilir^)  That's 
all  right.  But  now  let  me  explain,  and  the  best  way  to 
do  so  is  in  the  form  of  a  story." 

The  great  crowd  pushed  up,  as  they  do  at  the  sermon 
at  Mass  on  Sunday  in  the  country  chapels,  and  hung  upon 
his  words. 

"In  a  certain  club  in  DubHn,"  Hamberton  said,  "not 
many  months  ago,  there  were  grouped  together  a  number 
of  landlords,  who  had  met  to  settle  how  they  should  deal 
with  their  tenantry  during  the  coming  winter.  They  had 
almost  unanimously  agreed  that  the  good,  old  system  of 
grinding  and  crushing  the  tenantry  should  be  kept  up 
{cries  of  "Bad  luck  to  them!''  "We  wouldn't  doubt  them" 
etc.),  that  there  were  to  be  no  reductions  and  no  sales. 
Well,  one  young  gentleman  ventured  to  protest.  He  had 
been  reading  and  thinking  a  good  deal  about  things  in 
general.  And  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion,  which  you 
will  agree  with  me  was  utterly  absurd,  that  he  had  some 
business  to  do  on  this  earth  besides  squeezing  the  last 
farthing  from  tenants,  and  squandering  it  on  horses  and 


374  LISHEEN 

dogs.  (Cries  oj  '^Oyeh!  Begor,  that  was  the  quare  land- 
lord! We  wish  we  had  more  like  him!")  He  also  main- 
tained that  it  was  not  quite  true  that  the  farmers  lived 
better  than  the  landlords,  that  they  had  fresh  meat 
three  times  a  day  {great  laughter),  that  there  was  a  piano 
in  every  cottage,  and  that  each  farmer's  wife  had  a 
sealskin  coat,  and  silver  fox  furs  (redoubled  laughter). 
Well,  he  was  contradicted  and  refuted,  and  then  — " 

Hamberton  paused  for  effect,  and  the  silence  became 
painful  from  the  suppressed  excitement  of  the  people. 

"Then,"  he  continued,  "this  young  gentleman  was 
challenged  to  prove  it,  he  was  challenged  to  go  dovm 
and  live  amongst  the  peasantry  for  twelve  months,  as  a 
common  farm-hand;  to  share  their  labour,  their  food,  their 
hardships.  Strange  to  say,  he  consented.  He  put  aside 
everything  that  belonged  to  him  as  a  gentleman,  and  he 
went  down  and  became  an  ordinary  farm-hand." 

Here  there  was  a  great  commotion  in  the  silent  crowd, 
for  Mrs.  McAuliffe  was  crying  and  sobbing,  and  trying  to 
say  something  which  her  tears  wouldn't  allow.  Debbie 
had  turned  quite  pale.  Hamberton  sternly  commanded 
silence.  He  knew  the  secret  was  leaking  out  and  that 
would  never  do.  He  could  not  allow  his  dramatic  ending 
of  the  story  to  be  anticipated.  But  he  was  almost  discon- 
certed by  the  fierce,  anxious  look  which  the  girl  now 
fastened  on  him. 

"After  tramping  around  here  and  there,"  continued 
Hamberton,  "the  farmers  naturally  refusing  to  employ 
such  a  white-handed,  white-faced  labourer,  he  came  to  a 
certain  place  where  he  was  at  last  taken  in.  He  was 
footsore,  hungry,  tired,  and  heartily  sick  of  his  job,  but 


LISHEEN  375 

he  got  food  and  drink  and  a  welcome  there,  and  there  he 
remained  for  some  months,  not  doing  much,  as  you  may 
suppose,  because  these  landlords,  whilst  they  reap  the 
profits,  are  not  much  used  to  the  labour.  Then  he  fell 
sick  and  was  nursed  as  carefully  as  by  his  mother.  At 
last,  owing  to  one  cause  or  another,  the  poor  family  with 
whom  he  was  housed  were  flung  upon  the  world.  His 
heart  was  bleeding  for  them,  but  it  was  too  soon  to  show 
himself,  and  besides,  he  wanted  to  see  all  that  landlordism 
could  do,  and  again,  he  wanted  to  be  able  to  build  up  the 
fortunes  of  that  poor  family  so  that  they  could  never  be 
disturbed  again.  The  day  of  the  eviction  he  interfered 
for  that  purpose,  and,  as  is  usual  in  Ireland,  he  was 
misunderstood.  He  got  more  curses  than  thanks,  more 
kicks  than  halfpence.  It  is  a  little  way  you  have  in  this 
country  of  rewarding  your  friends." 

Here  old  Mrs.  McAuliffe  got  in  a  word: 

"I  never  misdoubted  him,  yer  'aimer.  I  knew  he  was 
good,  and  I  said,  'Good-bye,  and  God  bless  him!'" 

This  interlude  excited  now  the  greatest  interest  in  the 
crowd.  They  were  on  the  eve  of  great  revelations  evi- 
dently, and  they  crushed  in  and  around  the  speaker,  their 
mouths  wide  open  in  expectation. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  ma'am,"  said  Hamberton,  sternly, 
"till  I  am  done.     Then  you  can  talk  your  fill." 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "the  strangest  thing  remains  to 
be  told.  This  young  gentleman,  for  amusement  sake, 
was  in  the  habit  of  going  up  alone  into  the  hills,  and 
there  giving  out  aloud,  or  as  they  call  it,  declaiming, 
certain  passages  from  an  obscure  and  legendary  writer, 
called  Shakespeare.    Some  of  those  were  murderous  and 


376  LISHEEN 

bloodthirsty,  and  some  were  soft  and  pleasant.  The 
bloodthirsty  ones  were  overheard  by  a  certain  boy  and 
girl  whose  names  I  won't  mention,  but  who  acted  as  spies 
on  his  movements,  and,  in  a  moment  of  passion,  informa- 
tions were  sworn  against  this  young  gentleman  on  the 
ground  of  murder,  and  he  was  arrested.  I  hope  that 
young  lady  is  sorry  for  her  action  now,  but  it  led  the  way 
to  the  revelation.  He  was  obUged  now  to  throw  off  the 
mask  and  show  himself,  and  besides,  the  time  had  come 
to  accomplish  the  work  on  which  he  had  set  his  heart." 

Hamberton  paused,  to  emphasize  the  end  of  his  dra- 
matic story,  and  there  was  the  deepest  silence  now  in  the 
vast  crowd. 

"That  work  was  this.  He  purchased  the  farm  on 
which  he  had  lived  as  farm-labourer  for  so  many  months, 
and  made  over  by  deed,  solemnly  executed  and  witnessed, 
the  fee-simple  in  that  farm  for  ever  to  the  people  who 
had  so  well  treated  him;  he  has  spent  a  sum  of  eight  hun- 
dred pounds  besides  on  the  place,  and  made  it  a  worthy 
residence  for  ever  for  these  poor  people.  I  suppose  I 
need  hardly  add  that  the  farm  is  Lisheen,  that  it  was  the 
McAuhffes  that  sheltered  this  gentleman  in  his  hour  of 
need,  and  that  that  gentleman  who  came  down  in  dis- 
guise from  his  position  to  see  and  alter  the  fortunes  of 
the  people  is  Robert  Maxwell,  Esq.,  J.P.,  and  D.L.  for 
this  County,  late  farm-hand  at  Lisheen,  and  still  steward 
at  Brandon  Hall." 

There  was  silence  during  the  revelation.  Then  a  faint 
cheer.  Hamberton  was  disappointed.  He  expected  an 
earthquake. 

"You  don't  understand,  I  see,"  he  said. 


LISHEEN  377 

They  looked  at  one  another,  uncertain  what  to  think. 
The  truth  was,  that  the  story  was  so  strange  as  to  be 
almost  incredible.  It  seemed  to  block  the  avenues  of 
their  minds  and  they  could  not  take  it  in.  They  continued 
staring  at  one  another  and  Hamberton  irresolutely. 
Then  he  took  out  the  deed,  and  calling  Owen  and  Mrs. 
McAuHffe  over  to  where  he  was  standing,  he  read  out 
the  deed  of  transfer  slowly  and  solemnly.  And  then 
he  led  them  into  their  new  house,  theirs  for  ever  and  ever- 
more. 

At  this  juncture  there  was  a  wild  burst  of  cheering, 
which  was  repeated  when  Hamberton  again  came  forward, 
and  took  in  Pierce  and  Debbie. 

Once  again  he  came  forth  and  said  to  some  peasants 
standing  near: 

"Do  you  understand  me?  I  say  it  was  Maxwell,  my 
steward  and  landlord,  who  has  done  this  sublime  and 
magnificent  act  towards  his  friends." 

"We  do-o-o,"  said  the  men,  hesitatingly.  The  fact 
was,  they  could  not,  all  of  a  sudden,  get  over  their  feeling 
of  hostility  towards  Maxwell. 

"Then,  damn  you,  why  don't  you  give  one  decent  cheer, 
or  yell  for  him?" 

"Why  don't  ye  cheer?"  said  a  peasant. 

"Yerra,  yes,  why  don't  ye  cheer?"  said  another. 

But  they  couldn't.  And  Hamberton,  turning  to  his 
ward,  said: 

"You  see  Maxwell  was  right  in  not  coming  hither. 
They'd  have  stoned  him." 

But  he  said,  with  a  gesture  of  contempt  towards  the 
crowd : 


378  LISHEEN 

"There.  There's  two  or  three  tierces  of  black  porter 
in  the  bam.     Perhaps  ye'll  cheer  now." 

They  laughed  at  his  eccentricity  and  said  to  one  another: 

"Begor,  he's  the  funny  man  intirely!" 

It  was  somewhat  different  in  the  interior  of  the  cottage 
when  they  re-entered  to  say  good-bye  to  the  occupiers. 

"You  understand,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  this  place, 
and  all  things  on  it  and  belonging  to  it,  are  yours  for 
evermore,  and  that  no  landlord  or  agent  or  official  of  any 
kind  can  ever  interfere  with  you  again?" 

The  men  looked  too  stupefied  to  say  anything.  They 
couldn't  realize  it.  The  change  from  the  direst  poverty 
to  affluence,  from  a  prison  to  such  a  home,  was  too  stu- 
pendous to  be  immediately  understood.  But  the  old 
woman  grasped  the  situation  at  once. 

"We  do,  your  'anner,"  she  said.  "An'  sure  the  grate 
God  must  be  looking  afther  us  to  sind  us  such  a  welcome." 

"We-ell,  yes,  I  suppose,"  said  Hamberton,  not  quite 
understanding  where  supernatural  influences  came  in. 
"But  you  know,  you  understand,  that  it  is  Mr.  Maxwell, 
—  the  boy  that  was  here,  do  you  understand  ?  —  that  has 
done  all  this.  These  stupid  people  outside  can't  grasp  it. 
But  you  do,  don't  you?" 

"Oyeh,  av  coorse  we  do,"  said  the  old  woman.  "And 
may  God  power  his  blessings  down  an  him  every  day  he 
lives,  and  sind  him  every  happiness,  here  and  hereafther." 

"Nice  return  you  made  him  for  all  his  goodness,"  said 
Hamberton,  turning  suddenly  on  Debbie.  "You  wanted 
to  hang  the  man  who  was  restoring  to  you  and  yours  all 
you  had  lost." 

This  was  the  first  time  that  her  parents  had  heard 


LISHEEN  379 

of  Debbie's  depositions  against  Maxwell.  They  looked 
amazed.     Hamberton  saw  it. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I'm  not  going  to  heap  coals  of  fire 
on  your  head  to-day.  You  can  make  your  own  apologies 
to  Mr.  Maxwell,  when  he  calls.  But  people  should  be 
careful  of  their  passions." 

"I  did  it  in  a  hurry  an'  a  passion,"  said  Debbie,  hanging 
down  her  head.  Then,  feeling  the  eyes  of  Claire  Moulton 
resting  on  her  with  curiosity,  she  exclaimed  with  sudden 
energy : 

"I  wish  to  the  Lord  he  had  never  darkened  our 
dure!" 

She  affected  to  be  busy  about  some  trifles,  but  soon 
added : 

"An'  av  I  had. me  way,  we  wouldn't  be  behoulden  to 
him  now." 

It  gave  food  for  reflection  to  Hamberton  as  he  drove 
homeward. 

"There  is  no  understanding  this  mysterious  people," 
he  said.  "x\nd  imagine  EngHshmen,  who  do  ever}'thing 
with  rule  and  compass  tape,  attempting  to  govern  them 
for  seven  hundred  years." 

"I  can  understand  that  girl's  feelings,"  said  his  ward. 

"Well,  yes.  But  such  awful  pride  would  be  unimagi- 
nable amongst  the  peasants  of  Devon  or  Somerset." 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  replied.  " But  I  can  understand  it. 
These  are  the  things  that  make  criminals." 

"Bot  what  beats  me,"  he  said  quite  aloud,  as  he  flicked 
the  flanks  of  his  horse  with  his  long  whip,  "out  an'  out, 
and  altogether,  and  intirely,  as  they  say  among  themselves, 
is  that  I  couldn't  get  a  cheer  for  Maxwell  from  those  dolts. 


380  LISHEEN 

They  didn't  seem  to  understand  it,  and  yet  they  say  they 
are  a  clever  and  quick-witted  people." 

"I  think  I  understand,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Maxwell  was 
playing  a  certain  part,  and  they  only  knew  him  in  that 
part.  Their  imagination,  which  is  very  limited,  cannot 
conceive  him  just  yet  under  any  other  aspect.  Perhaps, 
in  three  months  or  six  months,  they  will  grasp  it." 

"But  they  are  said  to  be  so  quick — " 

"Yes,  in  matters  concerning  their  own  daily  lives.  But 
you  see  they  are  now  carried  beyond  their  depth.  Mr. 
Maxwell  was  quite  right  in  not  coming.  He  would  have 
had  a  hostile  reception  at  first,  an  indifferent  reception 
even  after  you  revealed  his  goodness." 

"  Goodness  ?  That's  not  the  word,  Claire.  'Tis  great- 
ness, generosity,  magnanimity  beyond  fancy.  How  Gor- 
don would  have  grasped  his  hand!" 

"Yes,  it  was  very  grand,"  she  said.  "Do  you  know, 
from  the  moment  I  saw  him  in  that  wretched  cabin,  I  felt 
he  was  a  hero." 

"Then  you  kept  your  mind  very  much  to  yourself, 
young  lady.  I  thought  it  was  a  feeling  of  repulsion  you 
experienced,  from  some  remarks  you  made." 

"And  so  it  was,"  she  repUed.  "But,  I  knew  he  was 
great.     Probably  that  was  the  reason  I  disUked  him." 

"I  give  it  up,"  said  Hamberton,  after  a  pause. 
"Woman's  mind  and  the  Irish  nature  are  beyond  me.  I 
suppose  it  is  because  they  are  so  much  aHke." 

"I  wonder  is  that  a  compliment,"  said  his  ward. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 


A  DOUBLE   WEDDING 


In  the  early  autumn  Robert  Maxwell  and  Claire 
Moulton  were  wedded.  The  affair  was  very  quiet  and 
unfashionable.  But  there  were  solid  festivities  at  Brandon 
Hall,  and  gala  times  for  those  employed  by  Hamberton. 

There  was  but  one  sorrowful  soul  and  that  was  Father 
Cosgrove.  He  loved  them  all.  But  now  the  great  trouble 
of  his  Hfe  was  passing  into  an  acute  stage.  Would  Ham- 
berton now  carry  out  his  grim  intention  and  whilst  con- 
cealing the  infamy  of  it  from  the  world  for  the  sake  of  his 
ward,  end  his  life  in  the  Roman -fashion  ?  The  thing 
seemed  inconceivable  in  the  case  of  a  man  surrounded  by 
every  happiness  that  wealth  and  benevolence  could  obtain. 
But  Hamberton  was  a  philosopher  who  had  ideas  of  life 
and  death  far  above  and  removed  from  the  common 
instincts  of  humanity.  And  there  was  no  knowing  whither 
these  fantastic  ideas  might  lead  him.  He  was  a  great 
Pagan,  and  no  more. 

With  the  exception  of  this  one  care  corroding  the  breast 
of  the  good  priest,  all  things  else  were  smihng  and  happy. 
Maxwell  was  genuinely  glad  that  his  severe  probation  was 
over  and  that  he  had  obtained  his  heart's  desire  as  a 
reward.     And  Claire  had  found  her  hero. 

But  why  should  we  linger  on  such  commonplace  things 
when  the  greater  event  of  Darby  Leary's  wedding  demands 

381 


382  LISHEEN 

our  attention  as  faithful  chroniclers  ?  Let  the  lesser  events 
fade  into  their  natural  insignificance  before  the  greater 
and  more  engrossing  record.  Let  the  epithalamium  yield 
to  the  epic. 

There  was  something  like  consternation  in  the  mountain 
chapel  the  second  Sunday  after  the  conspiracy  between 
Maxwell  and  Darby  had  been  hatched.  For  there  was 
an  apparition  —  of  a  young  man  with  red  hair  and  a  sun- 
burnt face,  but  clothed  as  no  man  had  seen  him  clothed 
before.  For  Darby,  habited  in  a  new  suit  of  frieze  and 
corduroys,  and  with  his  red  breast  covered  by  a  linen 
shirt  with  red  and  white  stripes  in  parallel  Hnes,  did 
actually  make  his  way  to  the  very  front  of  the  congrega- 
tion, and  stand  at  the  altar  rails  facing  the  priest.  It  was 
unheard  of  audacity,  but  Darby,  with  keen,  philosophical 
insight,  had  made  up  his  mind  that  it  is  audacity  that 
entrances  and  paralyzes  the  brains  of  men,  and  that  if  he 
would  escape  endless  chaff  and  jokes  on  his  personal 
appearance,  the  way  to  do  so  was  to  brave  pubhc  opinion, 
and  run  the  gauntlet  with  open  eyes  and  head  erect. 

There  certainly  was  a  good  deal  of  nudging  and  pushing 
one  another  amongst  the  boys  and  girls  in  his  immediate 
vicinity,  but  it  was  all  more  or  less  hushed  and  concealed 
whilst  the  priest  was  reading  the  Acts  and  the  Prayer 
before  Mass.  For  his  eagle  eye  was  upon  them  and  upon 
the  chart,  and  woe  to  the  boy  or  girl  who  was  otherwise 
then  recollected  and  devout. 

But  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  when  the  priest's  back  was 
turned  to  the  congregation  there  were  many  "nods,  and 
quips,  and  wreathed  smiles,"  and  when  at  last  the  people 
arose  at  the  time  of  the  sermon,  and  the  tall,  angular 


A  DOUBLE  WEDDING  383 

figure  of  Darby  occupied  a  prominent  place  right  at  the 
altar  rails,  there  was  some  whispering  and  smothered 
smiles  that  made  the  young  priest  who  was  addressing 
them  pause,  and  look  around  with  some  severity.  This 
was  all  the  greater  because  he  was  speaking  to  them  on 
a  solemn  and  mournful  subject,  and  he  had  hopes  of 
touching  their  sympathies,  and  even  beholding  the  tacit 
expression  of  their  feehngs  in  a  few  tears.  Instead  of 
this  he  was  shocked  to  see  grave  men  smiUng,  girls  tittering, 
boys  whispering  behind  their  hands;  but  he  went  on 
slowly,  watching  the  opportunity  of  setting  free  the  flood- 
gates of  his  anger.  At  last  he  stopped,  and  the  old  and 
venerable  verger,  who  was  hardly  second  in  importance  to 
the  priest,  and  who  was  even  more  dreaded,  alarmed  by 
the  sudden  silence  of  the  preacher,  came  forth  in  an  angry 
and  inquiring  mood  from  the  vestry.  He  cast  an  eager 
glance  around,  under  which  many  an  eye  quailed,  and 
then  hobbled  over  to  the  rails,  and  bending  down,  he 
whispered  angrily  to  a  group  of  girls: 

''What's  the  matter  wid  ye,  ye  parcel  of  gliggeens?" 

"Yerra,  shure,  'tis  Darby,  sir!"  said  one  of  the  girls, 
stuffing  her  shawl  in  her  mouth. 

The  mystery  was  explained ;  and  hmping  over  to  where 
Darby  was  standing  defiant  and  indifferent,  he  hissed  at 
him: 

"Kneel  down,  or  sit  down,  you  omddan!" 

Darby  instantly  obeyed;  and  the  old  man,  turning  to 
the  priest,  said  with  an  air  of  condescending  affability: 

"You  may  continue  yer  discoorse,  yer  reverence!" 
and  then  hobbled  back  to  the  sacristy. 

Strange  to  say,  the  little  incident  saved  Darby  from 


384  LISHEEN 

much  worry  outside.  The  public  exposure  satisfied  the 
desire  of  humbling  him;  and  when  the  congregation  was 
dispersing,  he  only  got  a  few  smart  slaps  on  the  back, 
and  a  few  hurried  questions: 

"Well  wear,  Darby;  and  soon  tear,  and  pay  the  bever- 
age!" 

"Will  be  lookin'  out  for  the  young  wife  now,  plase 
God!" 

"What  blacksmith  made  thim  breeches,  Darby?  I'll 
want  a  new  shuit  meself  soon." 

But  Darby  was  indifferent.  He  gave  back  joke  for 
joke,  and  hngered  behind,  with  one  idea  uppermost  in 
his  mind.  He  seemed  to  be  looking  straight  before  him; 
but  he  had  eyes  only  for  a  Httle  figure  in  a  faded  shawl, 
that  was  mixed  up  with  a  lot  of  others  as  they  crushed 
through  the  outer  gate. 

It  is  hard  to  discern,  or  define,  the  secret  laws  that 
guide  the  currents  of  our  fives,  and  bring  together  the 
individuals  that  are  to  be  mated  for  good  or  ill.  If  you 
stand  near  a  stream  that  has  been  vexed  into  foam  by 
rocks  or  sands,  probably  you  would  guess  for  ever  before 
telfing  what  specks  of  foam  or  air  bubbles  would  meet 
far  down  the  river  and  coalesce  in  their  journey  to  the  sea. 
And  we  fail  to  tell  how  it  was  that  the  many  members  of 
this  Sunday  congregation  fell  away  as  they  passed  down 
the  hillside,  and  left  Darby  and  Noney  together.  The 
two  were  silent  for  a  while,  and  then  Darby,  opening  his 
new  frieze  coat  to  show  his  magnificent  shirt  front  all  the 
better,  said,  in  a  loud  whisper: 

"Noney?" 

"Well,"  said  Noney,  looking  steadily  before  her. 


A  DOUBLE  WEDDING  385 

"Noney,  did  ye  see  me  the  day?"  said  Darby. 

"I  did,"  said  Noney.  "It  didn't  want  a  pair  of  spec- 
tacles to  see  you." 

"And  what  did  ye  think  of  me?"  said  Darby,  quite 
sure  of  himself. 

"I  think  you  were  nicer  kneehn'  than  standin',"  said 
Noney. 

"Wisha,  now,"  said  Darby,  a  little  abashed,  "I  shup- 
pose  'twas  bekase  me  back  was  turned  to  ye." 

There  was  an  awkward  pause  of  a  few  seconds;  and 
then  Darby,  getting  on  a  different  tack,  said: 

"I  have  a  grate  secret  for  ye,  Noney." 

"Indeed?"  said  Noney,  quite  unconcerned. 

"Yes,"  repHed  Darby;  "me  and  you  are  made  for 
life." 

"Me  and  you?"  repKed  Noney,  saucily,  "And  what 
have  we  to  do  with  wan  another,  may  I  ax?" 

"Oh,  very  well!"  said  Darby.  "Maybe,  thin,  Phil 
Doody  will  tell  you." 

"An'  what  have  I  to  do  wid  Phil  Doody?"  said  Noney, 
in  feigned  anger.  "Phil  Doody  is  nothin'  to  me  more 
nor  to  any  wan  else!" 

"Say  that  agin,  Noney,"  replied  Darby,  ecstatically. 

"I  say  that  there's  nothin'  betune  me  an'  Phil  Doody, 
more  than  any  other  bhoy!"  said  Noney. 

"I  thought  there  was  thin,"  said  Darby.  "But  people 
will  be  talkin'.     Nothin'  can  shut  their  mouts." 

"Phil  Doody  is  a  dacent  enough  kind  of  bhoy,"  said 
Noney,  after  an  awkward  pause.  "I  believe  his  sisters 
are  well  off  in  Ameriky." 

"So  they  do  be  sayin',"  replied  Darby,  who  did  not  like 
25 


386  LISHEEN 

the  allusion  at  all.  "I  suppose  they'll  be  takin'  him  out 
wan  av  these  days." 

"I  don't  know  that,"  answered  Noney.  "They  say 
he's  got  a  new  job  at  home;  an'  I  suppose  he'll  be  settling 
down  next  Shrove." 

**I  suppose  so,"  said  Darby,  innocently.  "I  hear  there's 
a  good  many  looking  after  him." 

"Is  there  thin?"  said  Noney.  "I  think  he's  made  his 
chice." 

"But  shure  you  said  this  minit,"  said  the  tormented 
Darby,  "that  there  was  nothin'  betune  you," 

"Naither  there  isn't,"  said  Noney.  "Shure  he  could 
make  his  chice  widout  me." 

Darby  felt  he  was  not  making  much  headway  here, 
so  he  tacked.  Affecting  great  lameness,  he  sat  down  on 
a  hedge,  where  he  crushed  many  a  pretty  flower  and  wild 
shrub,  and  said: 

"Noney,  these  boots  and  shtockins  are  playin'  the  divil 
intirely  wid  me  feet.  Bad  luck  to  the  man  that  invinted 
thim.  Sure  there's  nayther  luck  nor  grace  in  the  coun- 
thry  since  the  people  began  to  wear  them." 

And  without  further  apology,  Darby  removed  them, 
and  breathed  more  freely. 

"Who  gev  'em  to  you.  Darby?"  asked  Noney,  full  of 
curiosity.     "They're  rale  fine  brogues." 

"Ah,  thin,"  said  Darby,  sighing,  "the  man  who'd  give 
us  much  more,  an'  make  us  the  happy  couple  av  you'd 
only  say  the  word,  Noney." 

"Indeed,"  said  Noney,  pouting,  "an'  who  is  he?" 

"The  masther,"  said  Darby.    Then  after  a  pause,  he 


A  DOUBLE  WEDDING  387 

continued:  "Listen,  Noney,  an'  I'll  tell  you  what  I 
wouldn't  tell  morchial  alive,  not  even  me  mudder.  The 
masther  was  up  the  other  day  at  the  house,  an'  when  he 
was  goin'  away,  he  winked  at  me,  unbeknown  to  the  ould 
woman,  to  come  wid  him.  So  I  did.  And  then  he  tould 
me  that  he  was  gcttin'  married  himself  to  a  grand,  out  an' 
out  lady,  wid  lashins  of  gowld  and  dimons,  nearly  as 
much  as  the  Queen  of  England  herself.  Oh,  I'm  all 
bUsthered  from  thim  dom  boots,"  he  said  suddenly. 
"Bad  luck  to  the  man  that  invinted  ye!" 

And  Darby  began  to  chafe  the  foot  that  appeared  to 
be  most  troublesome.  Noney  was  on  the  tiptoe  of  ex- 
pectation, and  Darby,  the  rogue,  knew  it. 

"I  think  we'd  betther  be  goin'  home,  Noney,"  he  said, 
glancing  sideways  at  her. 

"Betther  rest  yersclf,"  said  Noney.  "You  could  never 
walk  home  wid  dem  feet  an  ye." 

"Thrue  for  you,"  said  Darby,  gaining  new  confidence. 
"Bcgor,  ye'd  have  to  be  carryin'  me,  Noney;  and  wouldn't 
it  be  a  nice  'lady  out  of  town'  ye'd  be  playin'." 

"But  what  about  the  wedding?"  said  Noney,  who  lost 
her  diplomacy  in  her  curiosity. 

"Is  it  our  weddin'  ye  mane?"  said  Darby.  "Shurc, 
whine ver  ye  Uke.     Ye  have  only  to  say  the  worrd." 

"I  didn't  mane  that," said  Noney, angrily, "an' you  know 
it  you  omddan,  you!    I  meant  the  masther's  weddin'." 

"Ah,  shure,  'tis  all  the  same,"  rephed  Darby.  "Be- 
kase  the  masther  sez,  sez  he:  'I'll  never  get  married, 
Darby,  onless  you're  married  the  same  day.'" 

"Did  he  say  that?"  asked  Noney,  who  began  to  have 
larger  conceptions  of  the  "Bhoy." 


388  LISHEEN 

"Pon  me  sowl,"  said  Darby,  "an'  more'n  that.  He 
said,  sez  he:  'There's  a  purty  little  lodge  at  the  grate 
house.  Darby,  as  nice  as  iver  you  saw,  wid  httle  windeys 
like  dimons,  and  a  clane  flure,  an'  a  place  for  the  hins 
and  chickens;  and  whin  you're  married  to  Noney  Kava- 
nagh,'  sez  he  ('I'm  tould  she's  the  rale  jewel  of  a  girrl 
out  an'  out,  and  there  isn't  her  likes  in  the  barony  for 
beauty,'  sez  he)  'you  can  come  here.  And  sure  you  can 
have  lashin's  and  lavin's  from  our  own  kitchen,'  sez  he, 
'an'  you  won't  be  wantin'  for  a  bit  of  fresh  mate,'  sez  he, 
'for  we  haves  fresh  mate  every  day,'  sez  he,  'and  some- 
times two  kinds  of  mate  the  same  day.  And  sure,  Noney, 
whin  she's  Mrs.  Darby  Leary,'  sez  he,  'can  kum  up,  and 
help  the  missus,'  sez  he,  'an'  sure  we  can  be  all  wan,'  sez 
he,  'and  whatever's  mine  is  yours,  Darby,'  sez  he;  'and 
whatever's  yours  is  mine,'  sez  he." 

Darby  here  drew  a  long  breath,  but  watched  Noney 
steadily  out  of  the  comer  of  his  eye.  He  was  evidently 
making  a  deep  impression  on  the  girl.     He  went  on: 

'"But,  mind  you.  Darby,'  sez  he,  'I'm  not  puttin'  any 
spancils  on  you.  You  may  tink  you're  too  young  a  bhoy 
to  marry,'  sez  he;  'or  yer  mudder  mightn't  hke  it,'  sez  he. 
'  But  that  makes  no  matther  at  all,  at  all.  Only  I'd  like 
us  to  be  married  the  same  day,'  sez  he.  'But,'  sez  he, 
'  av  you  don't  feel  aiqual  to  it  now,  you  can  come,'  sez  he, 
'and  get  into  the  Lodge  all  the  same;  an'  there  are  some 
little  colleens,'  sez  he,  'up  at  the  Great  House,'  sez  he; 
'and  maybe  afther  a  while,'  sez  he,  'wan  of  them  would 
be  lookin'  your  way;  and  sure,'  sez  he,  'av  Noney  wants 
to  marry  Phil  Doody,'  sez  he,  'lave  her — '" 

"I  don't  want  to  marry  Phil  Doody,  nor  anybody  else 


A  DOUBLE  WEDDING  389 

but  you,  Darby,"  said  Noney,  putting  her  apron  to  her 
eyes ;  and  — 

The  day  was  won. 

When  the  priest  called  afterwards  at  Mrs.  Kavanagh's, 
and  told  the  good  mother  what  a  fancy  Mr.  Maxwell  had 
taken  to  Darby,  and  how  he  had  given  him  five  real  gold 
guineas  for  the  immediate  wants  and  necessities  of  that 
young  man,  with  an  implied  promise  of  much  more  in 
future,  Noney  nearly  fainted  at  the  thought  that  she  was 
very  near  losing  such  a  chance  and  for  ever. 

She  snubbed  poor  Doody  badly.  For  Phil  was  a  pro- 
fessional joker;  and  he  couldn't  help  cracking  a  joke 
about  Darby. 

"Wasn't  he  the  show  to-day?"  he  said,  in  an  incau- 
tious moment.  "Bcgobs,  'twas  as  good  as  a  circus.  I 
thought  the  priesht  would  fall  off  the  althar." 

"Who  was  the  show?"  asked  Noney,  saucily. 

"That  cawbogue  from  the  hills.  Darby,"  he  said. 
"Who  the  divil  did  he  kill  or  rob  to  get  such  clothes?" 

"Darby  Leary  is  no  cawbogue,"  said  Noney.  "I 
think  he's  a  clanc,  dacent  bhoy  enough;  and  sure  what 
he  wears  is  his  own." 

"He  was  the  laughin'-stock  of  the  congregation  to-day," 
said  Phil. 

"They  had  betther  be  mindin'  their  prayers,"  said 
Noney.  "Some  people  soon  may  be  laughing  at  the 
wrong  side  of  their  mout'." 

Doody  looked  keenly  at  the  girl. 

"Begor,  wan  would  think  there  was  a  somethin'  betune 
ye,"  said  Phil,  "the  way  you  stand  up  for  him." 

"And  what  if  there  is?"  said  Noney. 


390  LISHEEN 

"Oh,  nothin',  nothin',''  said  the  abashed  Phil.  "Good- 
bye, Noney,  and  may  yer  ondhertakin'  thry  with  you!" 

Of  course,  there  were  troubles.  Nothing  is  worth 
having  without  trouble.  Noney  wavered  in  her  allegiance 
when  people  spoke  of  Darby  as  a  fool,  as  an  omadan,  as 
a  half-idiot.  Noney  relented  when  she  visioned  the 
pretty  lodge,  and  had  from  the  priest's  own  lips  the  testi- 
mony of  the  deep  interest  Maxwell  was  taking  in  Darby. 
The  great  trouble  was  with  Darby's  mother. 

That  good  woman  fumed,  and  swore,  and  asseverated 
that  no  daughter-in-law  should  ever  darken  her  door, 
and  dethrone  her.  She  broke  the  bellows  across  Darby's 
back  when  he  entered  unsuspectingly  his  cabin,  where 
the  news  had  preceded  him.  She  poured  out  upon  him  a 
torrent  of  contempt  and  scorn  in  the  too  accommodating 
Gaelic,  which  would  have  withered  up  and  annihilated 
any  one  else.  Darby  only  winked  at  nothing,  and  held 
his  tongue.  Then  she  went  to  the  priest,  and  asked  his 
reverence  would  he  have  the  conscience,  or  put  the  sin 
on  his  sowl,  to  marry  such  an  imbecile  as  Darby. 

"I  don't  think  Darby  is  a  fool,"  said  his  reverence. 
"I  think  he's  more  of  a  rogue;  and  the  Canon  law  of  the 
Church  makes  no  provision  for  that.  At  least,  I  never 
heard  of  an  impediment  in  that  direction." 

"Wisha,  thin,  yer  reverence,"  she  said,  "he  isn't  a 
rogue,  but  a  poor  gommal,  who  desn't  know  B  from  a 
bull's-foot." 

"H'm,"  said  his  reverence.  "It  seems  to  me  that  a 
young  man  who  has  nobbled  his  master,  and  secured 
such  a  girl  as  Noney  Kavanagh  for  his  wife,  is  not  the 
innocent  you  take  him  to  be." 


A  DOUBLE  WEDDING  391 

"Wisha,  thin,"  said  the  old  woman,  giving  in,  "I  sup- 
pose your  reverence  is  right.  But  may  God  help  him  and 
her.     'Tis  a  cowld  bed  she's  makin'  fer  herself." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  the  priest. 

So  matters  went  gaily  forward;  and,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  same  autumnal  sun  that  shone  on  the  nuptials 
of  Robert  Maxwell  and  Claire  Moulton  lent  his  radiance 
to  the  humbler  but  more  demonstrative  bridals  of  Darby 
Leary  and  Noney  Kavanagh. 

Noney  had  stipulated  with  the  good  priest  that,  in  the 
fear  of  a  great  popular  demonstration,  it  would  be  more 
compatible  with  her  humbler  ideas  to  have  a  very  private 
ceremony  in  the  vestry-room,  unknown  to  all  but  the  two 
witnesses  required  by  the  Council  of  Trent.  But  the 
profoundest  secret  will  leak  out  in  these  inquisitive  days; 
and  long  before  the  hour  appointed  for  the  marriage, 
suspicious  groups  began  to  gather  around  the  comer  of 
the  street  where  stood  the  rural  chapel. 

The  marriage  was  celebrated  quietly  enough;  but  when 
the  happy  pair  emerged,  and  had  got  beyond  the  friendly 
shadow  of  the  priest,  they  were  met  by  a  tumultuous 
crowd,  who  cheered  and  whistled  and  chaffed  the  young 
pair  good  humouredly;  and  accompanied  them  to  the 
discordant  music  of  tin-whistles  to  the  maternal  home. 

Darby  was  subhmely  unconcerned.  He  did  not  say 
so,  for  his  vocabulary  was  Hmited,  but  he  felt,  as  many 
a  wiser  man  should  feel  under  similar  painful  circum- 
stances, that  it  was  a  mere  "incident"  in  the  happy  life 
that  was  opening  up  before  him,  and  therefore  not  to  be 
noticed.     Noney  was    annoyed    at    this  demonstration, 


392 


LISHEEN 


which,  if  it  was  friendly,  was  also  more  or  less  disrespect- 
ful; but  Darby  whispered: 

"Hould  up,  Noney!  Think  of  the  lodge  and  the  two 
sorts  of  mate." 

And  Noney  bore  the  humiliation;  and  only  determined, 
deep  down  in  her  woman's  heart,  on  a  subtle  revenge; 
and  how  she  would  invite  some  of  these  grinning  girls  to 
see  her  over  there  at  Brandon  Hall,  and  show  them  all 
the  glories  of  the  lodge,  and  kill  them  with  envy. 

But,  as  the  night  wore  on,  all  these  ugly  feelings  dis- 
appeared, and  there  was  nothing  but  real  ceol  at  the 
Widow  Kavanagh's  house.  And  Darby  danced,  his 
bare  feet  (for  he  wouldn't  have  any  more  to  do  with 
shoes  and  stockings)  making  soft  music  to  the  sounds  of 
the  fiddle.  And  Noney  danced  "over  agin  him"  at 
the  other  side  of  the  door  that  had  been  laid  as  a  plat- 
form on  the  floor.  And  somehow,  people  began  to  come 
round  from  their  contemptuous  and  critical  attitude,  as 
they  always  do  when  you  keep  on  never  minding  them; 
and  before  the  night  was  over  it  was  unanimously  agreed 
that  a  gayer  or  a  handsomer  pair  had  never  left  the  parish. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 


THE   ROMAN   WAY 


Why  did  Cato  leave  that  dread  example  to  the  world 
of  opening  of  his  own  free  will  and  accord  the  door  of  Hfe 
that  leads  out  into  the  night  of  eternity?  And  why  did 
so  many  of  his  fellow-countr}^men,  who  had  not  the 
excuse  of  dripping  skies  and  modem  nerves,  follow  that 
example;  and  calmly  open  the  veins  of  the  life-current  in 
their  gilded  baths,  or  sUde  from  life  even  under  more 
gruesome  circumstances?  The  emperor  is  displeased; 
and  Petronius  goes  down  to  his  Villa  at  Paestum,  calls 
his  friends  together,  gives  them  a  glorious  Lucullan  sup- 
per, makes  a  pretty  speech,  ending  with  Vale,  Vale,longum 
Vale!  lies  down  on  his  couch,  his  favourite  slave  by  his 
side,  and  closes  his  eyes  on  the  world-drama  by  opening 
some  little  hidden  chamber  in  the  casket  of  his  body.  Or 
Symphorianus  is  a  little  tired  of  this  comical  and  unin- 
teresting world,  and  wants  to  see  what  is  at  the  other 
side  of  things;  and  —  goes  to  see!  Or,  Lydia  is  weary  of 
being  told  for  ever  Carpe  Diem,  weaiy  of  all  these  un- 
guents and  bathings  and  cosmetics,  and  in  sheer  weari- 
ness of  spirit  she  mns  through  her  breast  that  \Qxy  stylus 
with  which  she  pricked  the  bare  arms  of  her  slaves.  Or 
Leuconoe  has  seen  one  gray  hair,  and  decided  that  life 
is  no  longer  bearable;  and  the  Httle  reptile  will  just  kiss 
her  arm,  and  she  will  pass  into  the  dreamless  sleep. 

393 


394  LISHEEN 

Now,  Hamberton  had  read  a  good  deal,  knew  all  about 
these  Roman  methods,  was  an  artist  and  had  taste;  was 
refined  and  hated  a  mess;  and  yet,  strange  to  say,  he 
elected  first  to  make  his  bow  to  the  human  auditorium 
in  a  vulgar  and  unclean  manner.  He  had  none  of  the 
excellent  Roman  reasons  for  leaving  Hfe,  absolutely  none. 
He  simply  made  his  choice,  just  as  he  would  purchase  a 
ticket  for  London,  and  then  set  about  accompUshing  his 
design. 

Maxwell  and  his  ward  had  not  been  long  married,  and 
the  former  was  down  at  Caragh  Lake  for  a  few  days 
fishing,  when  Hamberton  one  night,  on  entering  his  bed- 
room, thought  he  would  experiment  a  httle  with  his 
weapons,  and  toy  a  Httle  with  Death,  before  finally  em- 
bracing him. 

He  had  kist'  ">od-night  to  Claire,  and  she  had  entered 
her  own  re  had  been   some  time  in   bed,  when 

Hamberton,',.  nng  donned  his  dressing-gown,  went  over 
to  a  large  maliogany  wardrobe,  opened  a  drawer  at  top, 
and  took  out  a  small,  silver-chased  revolver.  He  handled 
the  deadly  toy  with  ease,  and  fitted  in  the  httle  cartridges, 
each  snug  in  its  own  cradle.  He  then  went  over  to  his 
dressing-table,  and  sat  down. 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  house.  The  hoarse  wash 
of  the  sea  came  up  through  the  midnight  darkness  and 
that  was  all.  He  hstened  long  to  catch  the  faintest  sound 
that  would  show  that  his  niece  was  sleeping;  but  he 
heard  nothing.  He  laid  the  revolver  on  the  table,  and 
began  to  think. 

"If  now  I  were  to  use  that  deadly  weapon  on  myself,  — 
just  a  short,  sharp  shock  —  no  pain,  —  how  would  it  be 


THE  ROMAN  WAY  395 

with  me?"  And  his  stifled  soul  seemed  to  sob  out: 
"Silence,  darkness,  rest  for  evermore!  And  for  them? 
Horror,  shame,  despair!" 

"Pah,"  he  cried,  in  his  own  cynical  way,  "I  would  be 
forgotten  the  day  they  had  buried  me.  These  young 
people  are  engrossed  in  one  another  too  much  to  heed 
a  poor  suicide." 

And  for  the  world?  A  newspaper  paragraph  to-day! 
To-morrow,  oblivion  as  deep  as  that  which  sleeps  above 
an  Egyptian  sarcophagus! 

He  leant  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  looked  long  and 
earnestly  at  the  face  that  stared  at  him  from  the  mirror. 
It  was  a  strong,  square  face,  somewhat  pallid,  and  pursed 
beneath  the  eyes.  But  it  was  a  calm  face  with  no  trace 
of  anything  morbid  or  nervous  o^  ^erical.  "They 
cannot  say:  'Temporary  insanit},  bought.     "Al- 

though the  Irish  will  sometimes  ji^re  themselves 
through  their  damned  poHteness." 

He  took  up  the  weapon,  examined  it,  and  raised  it 
carefully  and  slowly,  placing  the  tiny  mouth  of  the  muzzle 
against  his  right  temple,  and  pressing  it  so  that  it  made 
a  little  circle  of  indentation  on  the  flesh.  He  kept  it 
steadily  in  this  position  for  a  while.  Then  he  stole  his 
index-finger  slowly  along  until  it  touched  the  trigger. 
Very  gently  he  moved  the  soft  papilla  of  the  finger  along 
the  smooth  side  of  the  steel,  thinking,  thinking  all  the 
while :  Only  a  little  pressure,  the  least  pressure  —  and  all 
was  over!  Then,  suddenly  as  if  for  the  first  time,  the 
thought  struck  him  that  he  would  make  a  dirty  mess  of 
blood  and  brains  in  this  way;  and  how  the  servants  would 


396  LISHEEN 

find  him  thus  in  the  morning  and  handle  him  rudely, 
and  hft  him  with  certain  scorn  from  his  undignified  posi- 
tion; and  how  the  rude  doctor,  that  detestable  Westropp, 
the  drunken  dispensary  physician,  whom  he  would  not 
let  inside  his  door,  would  paw  him  all  over,  and  talk  about 
his  well-known  insanity;  and  how  a  jury  of  his  own 
employes  would  sit  on  him  with  Ned  Galwey  in  the 
chair  — 

He  laughed  out  with  self-contempt  and  loathing,  and 
in  his  own  cynical  way,  he  muttered : 

"The  Romans  had  this  advantage  over  us  —  they 
folded  their  togas  around  them  as  they  died;  and  no  vile 
hinds  and  idiots  dared  disturb  their  dignity  in  death." 

And  he  threw  the  weapon  down  on  the  table.  There 
was  a  flash  of  fire,  one  little  tongue  of  flame,  and  a  puff 
of  smoke,  and  Hamberton  fell  backwards,  not  stricken, 
but  in  affright. 

"That  Httle  pellet  was  not  fated,"  he  thought,  "to  find 
its  grave  in  my  brain." 

And  then,  as  another  idea  struck  him,  the  strong  man 
grew  pale  and  trembled  all  over,  and  the  sweat  of  fear 
came  out  and  washed  all  his  forehead  with  its  dew. 

For  as  he  looked  he  saw  that  the  still  smoking  muzzle 
of  the  revolver  pointed  straight  to  the  wall,  or  rather  thin 
partition,  that  screened  Claire  Moulton's  room  from  his; 
and  a  dreadful  thought  struck  him,  as  he  gauged  the 
height  at  which  the  bullet  struck,  that  just  at  that  height, 
and  just  beyond  that  partition,  was  the  bed  on  which  his 
ward  was  sleeping.  His  heart  stood  still,  as  he  held  his 
breath,  and  Ustened.  No  sound  came  to  reassure  him 
that  she  had  been  startled,  but  not  hurt.     What  if  that 


THE  ROMAN  WAY  397 

bullet  with  which  he  had  been  criminally  experimenting 
had  pierced  through  that  lath  and  paper,  and  found 
its  deadly  berth  in  the  heart  of  the  only  being  on  earth 
whom  he  really  loved  ?  How  could  he  explain  it  ?  What 
excuse  could  he  give?  How  would  he  meet  Maxwell? 
And  the  words  of  Father  Cosgrove  came  back,  and  smote 
him: 

"You  cannot  go  out  of  Hfe  alone!" 

He  stood  still,  and  listened.  If  only  Claire  had 
screamed,  he  would  have  been  reassured.  But  no! 
Not  a  sound  broke  the  awful  stilbiess,  only  the  hollow 
thunder  of  the  sea  in  the  distance.  The  strong  man  sat 
down  weak  as  a  child. 

Then,  he  thought,  he  should  solve  the  mystery,  or  die 
just  there.  So  he  crept  along  the  carpet  of  his  room, 
softly  opened  the  door,  and  passed  down  the  corridor 
towards  his  ward's  room,  where  he  Hstened.  No,  not  a 
sound  came  forth.  She  is  dead,  he  thought,  killed  in  her 
sleep  and  in  her  innocence.  He  tapped  gently.  No 
answer.  He  tapped  louder.  No  answer  still.  He  then, 
trembling  all  over  at  the  possibiHty  of  finding  his  worst 
fears  confirmed,  opened  the  door,  and  said  in  a  low  shaky 
tone : 

"Claire!" 

Still  no  answer. 

Then,  in  despair,  he  almost  shouted  the  name  of  his 
ward. 

The  girl  turned  round,  and  said  in  a  sleepy  voice: 

"Yes!    Who  is  it?    What  is  it?" 

"It  is  only  I,"  he  said.  "I  thought  you  might  be 
unwell!" 


398  LISHEEN 

"Not  at  all,"  she  said.     "What  time  is  it?" 

"Just  midnight,"  he  repUed.  "I'm  so  sorry  I  dis- 
turbed you.     Go  to  sleep  again." 

And  he  drew  the  door  softly  behind  him,  and  re-entered 
his  room.  There,  he  did  an  unusual  thing  with  him. 
He  flung  himself  on  his  knees  by  his  bedside  and  said : 

"I  thank  Thee,  God  Almighty,  Father  of  heaven  and 
earth,  for  this  mercy  vouchsafed  Thy  unworthy  servant." 

He  buried  his  face  in  the  down-quilt,  and  heard  himself 
murmuring : 

"  There  is  a  God !    There  is  a  God ! " 

Then  he  rose  up,  took  the  dangerous  weapon,  drew  the 
remaining  cartridges,  and  placed  them  and  the  revolver 
in  the  cabinet,  undressed,  and  laid  down.  But  he  had  no 
sleep  that  night. 

The  dread  horror  of  the  thing  accompanied  and  haunted 
him  for  several  weeks;  and  then,  as  is  so  usual,  it  died 
softly  away,  and  the  old  temptation  came  back.  But 
now  he  had  determined  that,  if  he  should  succeed  in  pass- 
ing away  from  life,  it  should  be  in  such  a  way  that  the 
most  keen-eyed  doctor  or  juryman  should  see  naught  but 
an  accident.  Because,  for  several  days  after  that  dread- 
ful night,  he  was  distrait;  and  often,  he  caught  Claire's 
great  brown  eyes  resting  mournfully  upon  him,  and  as  if 
questioning  him  about  the  meaning  of  that  midnight 
visit.  And  he  found  himself  perpetually  asking,  does 
she  know?  Does  she  suspect?  until  somehow  a  deep 
gulf  seemed  to  yawn  between  them  of  distrust  and  want 
of  confidence;  and  he  said:  "It  is  the  new  love  that  has 
ejected  the  old!"  And  she  thought:  "Does  uncle  fear 
that  I  have  forgotten  him  in  Robert?" 


THE  ROMAN  WAY  399 

But  it  seemed  to  accentuate  his  desire  to  be  done  with 
things  —  to  pass  out  to  the  dreamless  sleep  that  seemed 
to  be  evermore  the  one  thing  to  be  desired. 

One  evening,  late  in  the  autumn,  he  was  out  on  the  sea 
in  Ned  Galwey's  fishing  boat.  He  enjoyed  with  a  kind 
of  rapture  these  Uttle  expeditions;  and  the  more  stormy 
the  weather,  and  the  rougher  the  elements,  the  greater 
was  his  esctasy.  Ned  always  steered,  for  he  was  an 
excellent  seaman;  and  Hamberton  used  to  watch,  with 
mingled  curiosity  and  admiration,  the  long,  angular 
figure,  the  silent,  inscrutable  face  with  the  red  beard 
hanging  like  so  much  tangled  wire  down  on  the  deep 
chest;  and  the  care  and  watchfulness  with  which  the  man 
used  handle  his  boat,  despite  his  apparent  forgetfulness  and 
silence.  He  seemed  always  to  rest  in  that  humble  posture 
of  silence  and  quiet,  as  if  dreading  to  disturb  Hamberton; 
and  he  never  dared  speak,  except  to  answer  some  question. 

Hamberton  on  calm  seas  would  rest  in  the  prow  of  the 
boat,  half  recHned  on  a  cushion,  reading  or  watching  the 
play  of  the  waters.  When  the  weather  was  rough,  he 
stood  on  the  thwarts,  supporting  himself  with  his  arm 
around  the  mast;  and  swaying  and  dipping  with  every 
plunge  of  the  boat. 

This  autumnal  evening  was  black  and  lowering  as  if 
with  brewing  tempests;  and  the  sea  was  heavdng  fretfully 
under  a  strong  land-breeze  that  made  the  breakers  smoke 
near  the  shore. 

Keeping  the  boat's  head  steadily  against  the  rush  of  the 
incoming  tide,  Ned  managed  to  avoid  the  dangerous 
troughs  of  the  seas,  and  there  was  no  inconvenience, 


400  LISHEEN 

except  for  the  shipping  of  a  few  seas  that  left  but  tiny 
pools  which  Ned  soon  bailed  out  with  his  free  hand. 
Hamberton,  this  evening,  stood  up  on  the  very  last  thwart 
near  the  bow,  yet  so  that  he  could  support  himself  against 
the  mast;  and  the  old  temptation  came  back  with  terrible 
force. 

"Only  a  Httle  shp  of  the  foot;  only  a  momentary  loss 
of  grasp;  and  all  is  over.  There,  there  beneath  these 
sweet  salt  waves  is  rest,  if  anywhere." 

He  began  to  dream  of  it,  as  he  watched  the  waters 
swirhng  by  the  boat,  or  the  fissure  in  front  where  the 
prow  cut  the  waves,  and  sent  the  hissing  sections  aft: 
until  he  felt  himself  almost  mesmerized  by  the  element. 
The  continuous  watching  of  the  green  and  white  waters 
seemed  to  obliterate  and  confuse  his  sight;  and  with  the 
dimness  of  sight  came  dimness  of  perception,  until  at  last 
he  began  to  think  that  he  had  accomplished  his  dread 
design,  and  that  he  was  actually  beneath  the  waves. 
Again  and  again  the  delusion  returned,  each  time  with 
more  force,  until  at  last  reason  and  imagination  became 
merged  together,  and  the  former  was  about  to  topple  over 
even  as  he  loosed  his  hold,  when  he  was  recalled  to  exist- 
ence by  the  harsh  voice  of  Ned  Galwey: 

"For  the  luv  of  God,  yer  'anner,  come  down  out  o' 
dat!  If  you  fell  over,  nothin'  on  airth  could  save  my 
nick  from  the  hangman!" 

For  a  moment,  Hamberton  did  not  understand  him. 
Then  he  laughed  with  grim  humour,  and  silently  sat 
down.     Presently,  he  asked: 

"How  is  that,  Ned?  If  I  toppled  over,  what  is  that 
to  you?" 


THE  ROMAN  WAY  401 

"Everything,"  said  Ned.  "On  account  of  our  dis- 
sinsions,  you  know,  the  whole  say  wouldn't  wash  me 
clane  before  a  judge  and  jury!" 

Hamberton  saw  the  truth  of  the  observation  at  once ;  and 
at  once  realized  again  the  truth  of  Father  Cosgrove's  words: 

"You  cannot  go  out  of  Ufe  alone!" 

But  he  said ; 

"It  wouldn't  make  so  much  difference,  Ned,  to  the 
world,  if  you  were  hanged,  and  I  was  drowTied." 

A  remark  that  convinced  Ned  fully  that  the  "masther 
was  tetched  in  his  head";  and  made  him  doubly  eager 
to  steer  for  that  Httle  Ught  that  burned  far  away  across 
the  tumbling  seas  in  his  Httle  cabin. 

But  the  spell  of  the  temptation  was  broken  for  Ham- 
berton. He  sat  very  still,  and  said  no  more,  not  even 
when  the  boat  had  touched  the  side  of  the  pier,  and  both 
sprang  ashore. 

But  now,  like  an  oft-expelled  and  conquered  disease, 
that  comes  back  with  greater  fur}-,  and  gathers  fresh 
strength  at  each  return,  the  terrible  idea  recurred  more 
frequently,  until  it  became  an  obsession.  The  great 
question  now  was,  how  to  accompHsh  the  evil  design, 
and  make  the  world  believe  it  was  an  accident.  He  knew 
he  could  count  on  Father  Cosgrove's  silence.  He  turned 
over  many  means  in  his  mind  of  meeting  Death ;  but  there 
was  always  some  difficulty.  He  had  quite  abandoned 
the  thought  of  a  sea-death,  as  he  saw  it  would  certainly 
compromise  either  Ned  Galwey,  or  any  other  boatman; 
and,  if  he  went  out  alone  on  the  sea  to  his  death,  it  would 
be  a  manifest  suicide. 
26 


402  LISHEEN 

At  length,  the  occasion  rose  up  with  the  temptation. 
For  one  evening,  as  he  walked  slowly  along  the  edge  of 
the  sand-cliff  that  fronted,  and  was  gradually  fretted  away 
by,  the  sea  in  the  vicinity  of  the  village,  he  saw  far  down 
beneath  him  some  children  playing.  There  were  a  few 
grown  girls,  and  two  or  three  httle  ones,  amongst  whom 
he  recognised  one  for  whom  he  had  a  curious  affection, 
because  her  mother  was  an  outcast  from  the  society  of 
men.  As  he  passed,  the  child  shouted  up  to  him  to  come 
down  and  play  with  them;  and  the  invitation  from  the 
child  woke  a  strange  dead  chord  in  his  soul,  and  a  certain 
spirit  of  tenderness  seemed  to  possess  him.  He  waved 
back  his  hand,  and  shouted  down: 

"All  right.     I  shall  be  down  soon!" 

And  he  went  on,  musing  on  the  possibihty  of  falHng 
gently  from  the  cHff,  and  meeting  an  easy  death  beneath. 
All  would  say  it  was  an  unhappy  accident.  But  clearly, 
he  dare  not  throw  himself  among  those  innocent  children, 
whose  Hves  he  would  thus  imperil. 

He  walked  along,  thinking  over  the  dread  thought, 
until  suddenly  he  heard  a  shout  from  a  fishing  boat  in  the 
bay,  and  looking  around,  he  saw  the  men,  who  were  far 
out,  wildly  gesticulating.  He  ran  back,  and  watched 
where  their  fingers  pointed.  Then,  when  he  came  quite 
opposite  to  where  the  children  were,  he  saw  the  danger. 
They  were  nearly  surrounded  by  the  incoming  tide,  for 
here  the  shore  dipped  suddenly,  and  the  frothing  waves 
came  up  with  a  hiss  and  a  rush.  The  elder  girls  had  run 
away,  and  were  screaming  at  a  safe  distance;  and  the  two 
little  ones,  one  of  whom  was  his  favourite,  were  standing 
paralyzed  with  terror.     For  here  there  was  a  hollow  in 


THE  ROMAN  WAY  403 

the  cliff,  and  two  barriers  of  rock  hemmed  in  the  sands. 
He  looked,  and  saw  the  children  vainly  trying  to  mount 
the  jagged  stones,  and  follow  their  companions.  He 
saw  them  run  backwards  screaming,  while  the  angry 
waves  leaped  in  and  swept  around  their  feet.  Forgetting 
Death,  and  now  moved  by  the  desire  of  saving  Life, 
Hamberton  stepped  forward,  and  trod  a  narrow  goat- 
path  that  ran  down  the  side  of  the  cliff.  But  the  screams 
of  the  children  became  more  importunate.  He  left  the 
path,  and  leaped  forward  to  a  ledge  of  sand  that  seemed 
to  slope  down  to  the  chasm  where  the  children  were 
imprisoned.  But  the  impetus  of  the  fall  was  too  great,  and 
he  felt  himself  driven  forward  by  his  own  weight  and 
unable  to  save  himself.  In  that  perilous  moment  he 
could  not  help  thinking: 

"I  have  had  what  I  desired.  Yea,  there  is  a  God!" 
and  the  next  moment,  he  was  huddled  up  on  the  sands, 
having  barely  escaped  involving  in  his  ovm  ruin  that  of 
the  children  he  had  bravely  determined  to  save. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 


NEMESIS 


No  woman,  mother  or  maiden,  ever  utterly  loathes  that 
which  she  has  once  loved.  Her  usually  flexible  nature 
seems  to  be  hardened  by  that  passion  into  a  shape  which 
cannot  be  bent  backward  or  broken.  There  may  be 
anger,  jealousy,  hate,  under  which  her  soul  will  vibrate 
painfully.  But,  at  length  and  at  last,  it  settles  down  into 
one  fixed  poise,  which  seems  as  unchangeable  as  the 
earth's  axis  towards  the  sun. 

Hence,  Mabel  Willoughby,  after  her  baptism  of  tears, 
took  the  regenerated  soul  of  her  husband  unto  her  own, 
and  settled  down  into  a  calm  attitude  of  resignation  and 
affection.  The  effect  on  Outram  was  almost  startling. 
The  unavowed  forgiveness  of  his  wife  for  his  deadly 
deception  touched  unto  better  purposes  and  larger  issues 
a  spirit  that  had  grown  old  in  duplicity;  and  he  came  to 
worship,  with  a  kind  of  doglike  uplook,  the  woman  whom 
he  had  betrayed  and  who  had  so  nobly  absolved  him. 
Hence,  during  these  fleeting  summer  and  autumnal 
months,  he  lost  all  his  cunning,  all  his  cynicism;  and  went 
about  a  humble  and  deferential  follower  of  his  wife, 
asking  for  and  obeying  her  commands;  whilst  she,  in  turn, 
seemed  to  regard  him  with  a  kind  of  respect  for  his  mis- 
fortune and  forgiven  fault. 

But,  where  men  forgive,  Nature,  and  her  handmaid, 
404 


NEMESIS  405 

Nemesis,  are  sometimes  relentless;  and  certainly,  in  some 
mysterious  manner,  the  magnanimity  of  men  is  not  imi- 
tated by  that  hidden  and  masked  executioner,  called 
Fate.  And  so  it  happened  that  one  day,  Outram,  who 
was  fleeing  from  Fate,  fell  into  its  arms;  and  expiating 
his  sin,  liberated  at  the  same  time  the  woman  who  had 
been  his  victim  and  pardoner  together. 

One  autumn  day,  unHke  autumn,  however,  in  a  strong 
breeze  that  curled  the  waters  down  in  a  Kerry  fiord, 
which  had  also  become  a  fashionable  watering-place,  a 
curious  picture  could  have  been  seen. 

There  was  a  strong  sunlight  on  the  beach,  where  chil- 
dren were  building  sand-castles;  and  the  old  were  sitting 
musing;  and  the  young  were  gaily  emerging  from  the 
bathing  boxes  for  the  afternoon  dip  in  the  sea.  This  was 
commonplace  enough;  but  what  reheved  it  was  a  strange 
figure  of  a  girl,  evidently  an  Oriental  or  a  quadroon, 
clothed  all  in  white,  except  for  the  red  sash  that  bound 
her  waist,  and  the  red  turban,  with  a  gold  tuft  or  crest 
that  hardly  bound  her  black  and  glossy  hair.  Her  feet 
were  bare,  but  were  ringed  with  silver  anklets.  Her 
arms  too  were  covered  with  some  kind  of  bracelets  in 
chased  silver.  And  she  stood  motionless  as  a  statue, 
except  that  the  wind  caught,  from  time  to  time,  her  white 
skirt,  or  her  red  sash,  and  swung  it  around,  and  threw  it 
back  again.  But  there,  against  the  background  of  the 
sea,  green  and  white,  and  on  the  level  gray  sands,  she  stood, 
statuesque  and  imposing;  and  many  a  curious  eye  watched 
her,  and  many  a  curious  guess  was  made  about  her  nation- 
ahty  and  her  presence  in  this  obscure  and  remote  place. 


406  LISHEEN 

Just  a  little  inkling  of  her  position  might  have  been 
given  by  the  presence  also  of  a  lady  and  gentleman,  who 
sat  about  twenty  or  thirty  yards  behind  her  on  a  little 
sand-hill  where  sea-thistles  grew.  They  were  both 
silent,  sketching  furiously  the  figure  before  them;  and 
occasionally  dabbing  in  some  bright  colours  from  a  palette 
that  lay  between  them. 

After  about  three  quarters  of  an  hour,  during  which 
the  white  figure  never  stirred  from  its  position,  the  lady 
and  gentleman  rose;  the  latter  said  something  aloud  so 
that  the  girl  might  hear;  and  instantly,  just  touching  her 
turban  and  her  black  hair  with  her  fingers  with  a  gesture 
of  feminine  coquetry,  she  turned  aside,  and  walked  with 
a  stately  and  dignified  step  towards  the  only  hotel  this 
remote  watering-place  could  boast  of.  Many  eyes  fol- 
lowed her;  many  stared  at  her  rudely;  but  she  looked  over 
all  with  a  certain  calm  grace  and  dignity  that  made  the 
rude  and  the  insolent  and  the  curious  lower  their  gaze 
as  she  passed. 

That  evening,  the  only  passengers  that  stepped  from 
the  stage-coach,  which  plied  between  the  village  and 
Killamey,  were  Outram  and  his  wife. 

They  had  come  to  spend  a  week  or  two  of  the  closing 
autumnal  hoUdays  here  and  there  on  the  loveUest  sea- 
coast  in  the  world;  and  Outram,  who  had  been  always 
fond  of  society  and  excitement,  now  sought  the  most 
secluded  and  hidden  places,  as  if  he  dreaded  the  faces 
of  strangers,  or  was  jealous  of  aught  but  the  companion- 
ship of  his  wife. 

He  had  said  to  Mabel,  just  as  they  approached  the  hotel : 


NEMESIS  407 

"Here  we  can  manage,  I  think,  a  quiet  week  or  two. 
I  understand  the  season  has  been  a  poor  one;  and  we 
shall  be  almost  alone." 

And  he  stepped  from  the  coach  with  the  agiHty  of  one 
who  just  then  was  reheved  from  some  apprehension,  and 
had  sought  and  found  a  respite  or  a  rest.  And  they  were 
fortunate  in  securing  the  two  best  rooms  in  the  hotel,  — 
those  overlooking  a  tiny  strip  of  laurelled  garden,  over 
whose  fohage  could  be  seen  the  green  wastes  of  the  sea. 

Yet,  next  morning  after  breakfast,  to  Mabel's  intense 
surprise,  Outram  came  to  her  and  said,  in  a  pitiful  way, 
that  closed  all  questioning: 

"I  think  we  had  better  clear  out  from  here,  Mabel. 
I  have  had  a  wretched  night,  full  of  all  kinds  of  appre- 
hensions and  fears.  I  wish  I  had  that  ring  from  Max- 
well." 

And  he  looked  so  ill  that  she  forbore  asking  questions. 

The  hotel  proprietor  was  alarmed  and  disturbed.  He 
had  counted  on  such  ehgible  guests  for  a  fortnight  at  least. 

"Anything  wrong  with  the  room?  We  can  easily  get 
you  another.  Perhaps,  you  would  like  your  meals  alone," 
etc. 

To  all  which  anxious  interrogatories,  Outram  could 
only  say: 

"No,  no.     All  is  right.     But—" 

And  they  departed.  Mabel  mused  all  the  way  in 
silence,  until  they  came  to  their  old  quarters  on  Caragh 
Lake.  High  up  on  the  hills  was  the  bell-tent  of  Maxwell, 
with  the  httle  red  permant  fluttering  in  the  breeze. 

"I  hope  Maxwell  is  here,"  he  said.  "I  shall  demand 
my  ring." 


4o8  LISHEEN 

"He  cannot  be  here,"  said  Mabel,  wishing  it  were  so. 
"You  know  he's  married  to  some  English  girl  along  the 
Dingle  coast;  and  I  heard  they  have  gone  abroad." 

The  sudden  hope  died  away  from  Outram's  face,  and 
left  it  dark  and  gloomy  as  before. 

They  had  rooms  in  the  hotel;  and  the  unhappy  man, 
hunted  by  Fate,  had  one  night's  rest.  But  the  next  day 
he  looked  fearful  and  unhappy  and  apprehensive,  watch- 
ing in  a  furtive  manner  the  guests  at  table  or  on  the 
corridors,  and  hiding  behind  curtains  when  the  great 
stage-coaches  came  with  their  burden  of  passengers,  and 
went. 

His  wife  could  not  help  noticing  it,  and  his  dread  be- 
came contagious.  Both  felt  now  the  shadow  of  a  great 
fear  looming  down  on  them;  the  meshes  of  Fate  closing 
in  around  them.  But  by  common  consent  they  agreed 
that  this  fate  was  to  be  met  in  silence.  Mabel  asked  no 
questions;  and  Outram  proffered  no  suggestions. 

The  second  day  passed  quietly  over  them,  Outram 
having  spent  the  greater  part  of  it  alone  on  the  lake; 
and  even  there  seeking  the  shadows  and  sequestered 
places  rather  than  the  open  waters,  where  eyes,  them- 
selves unseen,  might  rest  upon  him.  In  the  evening  he 
was  in  excellent  spirits,  and  said  after  dinner  to  his  wife: 

"I  think,  after  all.  Maxwell  may  be  here.  At  least,  I 
imagine  I  saw  that  young  barbarian  who  used  accompany 
him,  and  whom  once,  you  remember,  I  nearly  drowned 
at  the  pier.     I  must  make  inquiries." 

He  did.  Yes!  Maxwell  was  here  for  a  few  days' 
fishing,  before  the  close  of  the  season.  He  Hved  alone 
in  his  bell-tent  up  there  in  the  valley  of  the  hills,  and  saw 


NEMESIS  409 

no  one.  He  had  been  married  to  a  great  English  heiress, 
who  would  now  inherit  untold  wealth,  for  look!  here  is 
a  paragraph  in  the  Sentinel  to  the  effect  that  Hugh  Ham- 
berton,  Esq.,  J.P.,  Brandon  Hall,  was  killed  by  a  fall  from 
a  cliff  in  the  neighbourhood  of  his  home  last  Monday, 
whilst  endeavouring  to  save  the  hves  of  two  children  who 
had  been  suddenly  surrounded  by  the  incoming  tide. 

"Lucky  dog!"  said  Outram.  "He  was  always  lucky, 
except  —  when  he  lost  you,  Mabel." 

And  Mabel  smiled  sadly. 

Another  day  rolled  by,  and  after  breakfast  Outram 
again  recurred  to  the  matter. 

"I'll  go  up  this  afternoon  or  to-morrow  and  interv-iew 
him,"  said  Outram.  "It  will  be  interesting  to  hear  of 
his  adventures  as  a  farm-labourer,  and  I  must  have  that 
ring.  Will  you  come,  Mabel?  We  can  drive  up  after 
lunch." 

And  Mabel  shook  her  head,  and  said  nothing.  Outram 
did  not  go  to  seek  Maxwell.  He  spent  the  day  again  on 
the  lake. 

After  dinner  that  evening,  he  strolled  through  the 
grounds  of  the  hotel,  smoking,  and  seeking,  as  was  now 
his  wont,  seclusion  in  the  deep  thickets  and  shrubberies 
that  almost  made  night  of  day  in  the  place.  He  seemed 
to  have  no  fear  now,  as  he  walked  in  deepest  solitude  to 
and  fro,  thinking,  thinking  of  many  things,  and  yearning 
for  that  strange  taHsman  to  which  he  attached  such  su- 
perstitious importance.  The  day  was  declining;  but  red 
clouds  hung  in  masses  above  his  head. 

Once,  as  he  was  turning  in  his  walks,  he  thought  he  saw 
a  glint  of  colour  amongst  the  trees;  but  concluded  that  it 


410 


LISHEEN 


was  a  mistake;  and  he  gave  himself  up  again  to  imagina- 
tion, ending  each  strophe  of  his  fancy  by  wishing  he  had 
that  ring  once  more  in  his  possession.  He  despised  him- 
self for  attaching  such  importance  to  so  paltry  a  thing; 
but  a  spell  was  upon  him,  which  he  could  not  shake  aside. 

Suddenly,  a  low  voice,  scarcely  raised  above  a  whisper, 
broke  on  his  startled  ears,  and  made  his  heart  stand  still 
in  terror.  It  came  from  behind  the  thick  bole  of  a  huge 
sycamore,  and  was  chaunting  as  if  in  a  soHloquy  the 
following  words  in  Sanskrit: 

"  Salutations  to  thee,  O  my  Father!  Salutations  to  thee, 
O  thou  giver  of  boons!  Why  hast  thou  hidden  thy 
face  from  thy  slave,  and  made  night  of  her  Ufe  ?  Behold 
Brahma  has  brought  me  to  thee  across  seas  and  moun- 
tains.    I  have  found  thee;  and  shall  not  let  thee  go!" 

Outram  stood  still  as  one  suddenly  paralyzed.  The 
voice  of  the  girl  went  on  in  a  similar  dreary,  moaning 
recitative,  relating  her  love  for  her  benefactor,  her  pur- 
suit of  him  through  India  and  Europe,  and  hither;  her 
protestation  of  fideUty,  her  determination  never  to  leave 
him  again.  Well  he  knew  the  terrible  scorn  and  irony 
that  were  beneath  her  words;  and  her  grim  purpose  that 
he  should  not  escape  her.  He  thought  to  fly;  but  knew 
at  once  that  she  would  follow  him,  and  reach  him  in  un- 
expected places.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  face 
at  once  his  evil  genius,  and  ask  her  what  she  required. 

He  waited  for  a  moment  to  steady  his  nerves,  threw 
away  his  cigar,  and  stood  opposite  the  girl. 

She  seemed  to  be  taken  aback  for  a  moment ;  but  looked 
at  him  with  that  air  of  deprecation  and  that  moistening 
of  the  eyelids  that  he  knew  well  concealed  a  purpose  not 


NEMESIS  411 

to  be  shaken  —  a  character  not  to  be  angered  or  frightened 
—  a  grim  resolution  to  follow,  and  follow,  and  follow  to 
the  end. 

"Satara!"  he  said  sternly,  and  as  if  asking  a  question. 

"Yes,  my  Lord!    Your  slave  and  bondswoman!" 

She  held  her  hands  hanging  down  clasped  before  her, 
and  her  great  eyes  wandered  over  his  face. 

"What  has  brought  you  hither?  Why  have  you  come 
to  disturb  my  peace?" 

"Why  does  the  moon  hang  round  her  mother.  Earth?" 
she  replied  in  the  same  calm  monotone.  "Why  do  the 
rivers  run  to  the  sea?  Why  do  the  tides  come  and  go  at 
a  secret  biddance?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said  impatiently.  "I  know  all  that 
jargon.  But  what  do  you  want?  I  have  but  Mttle 
money  — "he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  drew  out 
some  loose  silver,  — "  and  cannot  promise  you  more. 
You  have  a  situation,  have  you  not?  I  saw  you  v^dth 
some  persons  over  there  at  Waterville." 

She  put  aside  the  money  proffered,  gently,  but  with 
some  disdain,  and  looked  at  him  with  brimming  eyes. 

He  got  angry  at  this.  It  was  an  unreasonable  thing, 
and  therefore  an  invincible  thing. 

"You  know  I'm  married,"  he  said,  "and  you  should 
also  know  that  the  past  is  past,  and  to  be  forgotten  utterly; 
that  European  ways  are  not  the  same  as  those  of  India; 
and  that  I  cannot  allow  you  to  follow  me  here!" 

"My  Lord  is  angry  with  his  servant,"  she  said.  "What 
has  his  servant  done  to  create  anger?  The  past  is  not 
past;  for  there  is  no  past  nor  future  for  the  children  of 
Brahma,  the  Eternal." 


412 


LISHEEN 


She  waved  her  hand,  as  if  to  brush  away  any  objection, 

"Look  here,  Sdtara,"  he  said,  "that  jargon  is  all  right 
beyond  the  Red  Sea.  But  we  cannot  listen  to  it  here. 
Again,  I  tell  you  that  this  is  Europe;  and  that  our  ways 
are  not  yours.  You  cannot  come  into  my  house.  That's 
impossible.  I  cannot  receive  you.  Why  can't  you  re- 
main as  you  are  ?    Are  the  people  kind  to  you  ?" 

"Kind?  Yes.  But  they  are  also  kind  to  their  dog. 
What  is  kindness  ?  Will  the  gleaner  take  an  ear  of  com 
when  he  can  get  a  sheaf?  Will  my  lord  drink  water 
when  he  can  have  the  grape-juice  of  the  vineyard?" 

Outram  was  sorely  puzzled  what  to  do.  How  to  get 
rid  of  this  girl  with  her  brimming  eyes,  her  deadly  and 
tenacious  purpose,  her  Eastern  fanaticism,  he  knew 
not. 

"Satara,"  he  said,  lowering  and  softening  his  voice, 
until  it  became  almost  caressing,  "you  once  cared  for  me? 
We  were  once  friends?" 

"Nay,  nay,"  she  said,  "not  friends.  The  slave  is  not 
the  friend  of  her  master;  the  worshipper  is  not  the  friend 
of  Brahma." 

He  saw  it  was  useless.  But  now  the  evening  had  deep- 
ened down.  The  hghts  were  twinkling  in  the  hotel 
beyond.  He  must  soon  return;  and  —  with  such  a  com- 
panion!   He  made  a  final  effort. 

"Come!"  he  said,  and  he  led  the  way  through  the 
shrubbery  by  a  by-path  down  to  the  pier,  where  the  httle 
punt  was  moored. 

When  the  girl,  walking  by  his  side,  saw  him  unloose 
the  boat,  and  invite  her  towards  it,  she  stepped  back. 
But  he  used  gentle  words  of  command,  and  represented 


NEMESIS  413 

to  her  that  here  alone  could  there  be  the  solitude  neces- 
sary for  the  explanations  that  he  deemed  it  necessary  to 
give,  because  she  was  so  slow  to  understand.  Yet  she 
was  fearful;  and  watched  him  with  her  large  eyes  open, 
and  studying  every  feature  and  play  of  his  face  to  see 
what  was  his  design. 

At  last,  impatiently  he  coiled  up  the  rope  in  the  boat, 
and  sitting  down,  drew  away  from  the  pier.  Then,  in 
despair,  at  the  thought  of  his  escaping  her,  she  cried  to 
him,  and  stretched  out  her  hands.  He  drew  back  gently; 
and  gently  helped  her  into  the  boat.  Then  when  she  had 
seated  herself  he  pulled  out  into  the  lake.  A  wet  and 
smoky  half- moon  rose  in  the  south,  and  threw  its  silver 
over  tree  and  lake  and  mountain;  and  the  white  dress  of 
the  girl  shone  above  the  darkling  waters  beneath.  The 
clouds,  now  a  dark  slate-colour,  hung  threateningly  down- 
wards; and  certain  black  pines,  like  watching  sentinels, 
signalled  to  each  other  across  the  lake. 

Darby  Leary,  in  the  free  hour  after  his  master's  dinner, 
had  come  down  to  the  lake,  and,  with  the  view  of  catching 
a  few  trout  or  pike  for  Noney,  had  set  his  night-lines 
amongst  the  sedges,  and  was  calmly  enjoying  the  fra- 
grance of  a  cigarette.  He  had  now  advanced  beyond 
brown  paper,  and  could  smoke  as  many  deadly  cigarettes 
as  his  master.  Once,  unfortunately,  he  had  the  chance 
of  a  cigar;  and  this  mined  his  taste;  so  that,  under  the 
influence  of  that  experience,  there  was  always  a  Uttle 
contempt  and  sense  of  disappointment  under  the  more 
modest  and  less  dangerous  cigarette.  But  Darby  was 
not  one  to  quarrel  with  fate.     He  took  his  pleasures  as 


414  LISHEEN 

they  came;  and  only  dreamed  sometimes  of  better  things 
He  lay  coiled  up  in  a  bunch  of  heather  and  ferns,  and  was 
sinking  into  a  kind  of  deHghtful  coma,  when  the  hollow 
sound  of  the  sea  and  the  light  splash  of  water  aroused 
him. 

"Who  the  d ,"  thought  Darby,  "could  be  out  at 

this  hour  except  a  poacher  hke  meself  ?  The  gintry  are 
at  their  dinner.  I  hope  they  won't  pull  up  my  night- 
lines." 

He  drew  further  back,  took  the  cigarette  from  his 
mouth,  lest  the  smoke  should  betray  him,  and  watched. 
Presently,  he  saw  clearly  in  the  moonhght,  about  a  hun- 
dred yards  from  shore,  the  white  gHnt  of  a  lady's  dress, 
and  then  the  dark  form  before  her,  leaning  forward  and 
backward  at  the  push  and  draw  of  the  oars.  A  breeze 
sprang  up,  and  curled  the  waters  of  the  lake,  blurring  the 
shadow  of  the  woman's  dress,  and  swinging  the  tree- 
tops  above  Darby's  head. 

"I  didn't  hke  the  look  of  the  sky  to-night,"  thought 
Darby,     "If  I  were  thim,  I'd  go  home." 

And  then  he  saw  the  punt  draw  into  the  shadows,  and 
she  stood  still,  swaying  and  rocking  on  the  hght  waves. 
Darby  leaned  down  his  head  trying  to  catch  a  word  of  the 
conversation.  Not  a  sound  reached  him;  but  he  saw 
clearly  the  man  gesticulating,  and  once  a  Httle  scream 
from  the  woman  crossed  the  waters,  as  she  clutched  the 
edge  of  the  boat,  when  it  rocked  too  wildly. 

"They're  gintry,  begobs,"  thought  Darby.  "But  what 
a  quare  thing  to  come  out  on  sich  a  night.  They  have 
their  own  ways,  hke  common  people ;  and  I  misdoubt  but 
that  there's  some  mischief  there." 


NEMESIS  415 

This  made  him  think  of  his  own  little  wife  at  home; 
and  he  couldn't  help  saying: 

"Ah,  Noney,  sure  'tis  you're  the  jewel  intirely." 

A  half-hour  passed  by.  The  breeze  died  out,  sprang 
up  again  in  fiercer  gusts,  died  away  again,  and  then 
swept  down  in  a  hurricane  that  threw  seething  waves  at 
Darby's  feet. 

"Begobs,  I  must  warn  them,"  thought  Darby.  "If 
they  don't  shtop  their  cnofshauHn'  and  codrauHn',  they'll 
be  cool  enough  before  morning,  I'm  thinkin'!" 

He  put  his  hands  to  his  mouth,  and  shouted  across  the 
tumbling  waters: 

"There's  a  big  wind  comin'  down;  an'  ye'll  get 
swamped." 

Apparently,  they  didn't  hear  him.  He  again  shouted, 
in  a  superior  accent,  borrowed  for  the  occasion: 

"Hallo,  there,  in  the  punt!" 

A  faint  Hallo!  came  back. 

"They're  dhrunk,  or  mad,"  thought  Darby. 

"Get  home  out  0'  dat,"  said  Darby,  again  shouting 
through  his  hands.  "Don't  you  see  the  wather?  Cull 
in,  or  ye'll  be  drownded!" 

This  at  last  seemed  to  awaken  the  rower;  for  he  drew 
his  punt  around,  and  pulled  shore  wards. 

But  when  he  got  out  of  the  sheltered  waters,  and 
found  the  boat  rocking  dangerously,  he  tried  to  get  back. 
But  this  was  not  easy. 

"Keep  her  head  to  the  north,"  shouted  Darby,  "and 
pull  in  here." 

The  rower,  now  alarmed,  tried  to  do  so;  and  with  a  few 


4i6  LISHEEN 

strong  pulls  he  sent  the  punt  driving  through  the  seeth- 
ing waters.  But  wind  and  wave  were  too  much  for  him. 
These  autumn  tempests,  which  rise  so  suddenly  on  moun- 
tain lakes,  and  as  suddenly  subside,  raise  dangerous  and 
choppy  waves,  in  which  very  often  six-and  eight-oared 
boats  perish.  The  hght  punt  had  no  chance  there, 
although  just  now  driven  by  a  man  rendered  desperate 
by  a  double  terror.  He  struggled  furiously,  feeHng  that 
his  only  chance  was  to  cut  through  the  waters,  and  not  to 
leave  the  frail  Httle  skiff  at  their  mercy  for  an  instant. 
But  Nature  and,  as  he  now  thought.  Nemesis,  were  too 
much.  The  thought  of  this  girl,  who  had  travelled  half 
the  globe  to  avenge  Jiis  desertion  or  cruelty,  and  the 
thought  that  his  taHsman  would  now  have  been  in  his 
possession,  had  he  not  neglected  the  opportunity,  smote 
him  together;  and  with  a  kind  of  groan,  or  cry  of  despair, 
he  threw  up  the  oars,  and  folded  his  arms  in  defiance.  In 
an  instant  the  boat  was  swung  round,  Ufted  up,  and 
capsized;  and  Outram  and  the  girl  were  in  the  trough  of 
the  waves. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  save  himself  or  her.  He  flung 
up  his  hands,  and  went  down  Hke  lead.  Satara's  dress 
kept  her  floating  even  on  the  turbulent  waves  for  a  while; 
but  her  courage  too  was  departing,  and  she  was  beginning 
to  see  Fate  in  the  coincidence  of  meeting  Outram  and 
her  death,  when  a  rough  form  clove  through  the  waves, 
and  a  rough  voice  shouted,  whilst  he  spat  the  water  from 
his  mouth: 

"Hould  on;  an  —  for  —  the  life  —  of  ye  — don't 
ketch  me!" 

With  her  Eastern  stoicism,  she  compUed. 


NEMESIS  417 

"Now,"  spluttered  Darby,  "jest  lay  yer  hand — on 
me  —  shoulder  —  but  don't  ketch  me  for  yer  life." 

She  calmly  obeyed  him;  and  Darby  towed  the  girl 
ashore. 

When  he  had  pulled  her  up  amongst  the  sedge,  and 
set  her  on  her  feet,  and  got  back  his  breath,  he  was  the 
most  thunder-stricken  man  on  this  planet.  The  dark 
face,  the  black  hair  now  tossed  wildly  down  on  breast 
and  shoulders,  the  white  dress  and  red  sash,  completely 
bothered  him.  She  stood  panting,  and  staring  at  him, 
and  then  got  breath  to  say: 

"Tank  you!  Ver'  much  tanks!"  and  strode  away, 
leaving  Uttle  rivers  of  water  as  she  moved. 

Darby  was  too  much  surprised  to  follow,  or  ask  a  ques- 
tion. He  went  home  to  dry  himself,  and  in  reply  to  the 
astonished  queries  of  his  little  wife,  he  only  said  mys- 
teriously : 

"The  quarest  thing  ye  ever  hard.  But  whisht,  till  I 
see  the  Masther!" 


27 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 


AN   UNSOLVED   MYSTERY 


When  Darby  did  see  the  "masther,"  he  wrapped  him- 
self up  in  that  cloak  of  mystery  that  used  to  be  exaspe- 
rating, but  was  now  only  amusing  to  Maxwell.  He  had 
learned  much,  and  profited  wisely. 

"Where  were  you  last  evening,  Darby?"  he  said. 
"You  never  returned  home  after  dinner." 

"Sich  a  thing!"  said  Darby. 

"I  suppose  the  attractions  of  home  life  and  Noney  are 
too  much  for  you?"  said  Maxwell. 

"The  quarest  thing  yer  'anner  ivir  hard  of,"  said  Darby. 

"Well,  I'll  dock  you  a  quarter's  wages  in  future  if  you 
don't  mind  your  business,"  said  Maxwell. 

Thus  recalled  to  practical  life.  Darby  commenced  his 
narrative. 

"I  wos  goin'  down  the  hill,"  said  he,  "sayin'  me  prayers, 
bekase  Noney  do  be  complaining  that  I  do  be  so  long  at 
'em  that  I  keeps  the  supper  cooling,  whin,  lo!  and  behold 
you,  I  saw  the  punt  on  the  lake.  'Who  the  divil  are  out 
cooUn'  their  selves  at  this  hour  of  night?'  sez  I  to  meself. 
'They  must  be  the  quare  people  out  an'  out  to  be  boatin' 
at  sich  an  hour.'  So  I  watched  'em;  an'  begobs  I  aimed 
me  watchin'  well." 

Maxwell  grew  attentive.  It  was  so  like  something  he 
had  formerly  seen,  and  which  had  changed  the  whole 
course  of  his  life. 

418 


AN  UNSOLVED   MYSTERY  419 

"Here!"  he  said,  flinging  a  cigarette  to  Darby,  who 
now  got  into  the  full  swing  of  his  narrative. 

"There  wos  a  lady  an'  gintleman,  he  puUin'  an'  she 
steerin'  the  boat,  ontil  they  got  out  of  the  rough  wathers 
and  pulled  into  the  shallows  where  we  hooked  the  salmon." 

Maxwell  nodded. 

"Well,  there  they  wor,  talkin'  an'  codraulin',  an'  they 
nivir  see  the  wind  comin'  down  from  the  hills,  and  risin' 
the  lake  like  mad.  Thin  I  halloed  to  'em;  an'  they  didn't 
hear  me,  they  wor  so  occupied  wit'  aitch  other.  I  halloed 
agin.  Thin,  the  jintleman  saw  his  danger;  an'  he  pulled 
out.  But  the  wind  was  too  much  for  him,  and  the  wathers 
wor  too  shtrong.  Have  you  a  Hght  about,  you  yer 
'anner?"  he  cried,  suddenly  stopping,  and  addressing 
Maxwell. 

Maxwell  flung  him  a  box  of  wax  vestas,  and  waited. 
He  knew  from  experience  there  was  no  use  in  hurrying 
Darby. 

Darby  smoked  placidly;  and  then  resumed,  pausing 
between  each  puff  of  smoke. 

"But,  begobs,  he  could  handle  the  oar  well.  'Twas  a 
pity,  out  an'  out  ...  I  tould  him  hould  her  head  to  the 
says  ...  for  she  was  bobbin'  Hke  a  cork  .  .  .  An'  he 
did  .  .  .  But  thin  ...  a  gusht  of  wind  as  from  a  smith's 
bellows  ...  hit  him  ...  an'  he  flung  up  his  hands  .  .  . 
an'  wint  down  Uke  a  cannon-ball." 

Maxwell  had  to  wait  a  long  time;  but  he  was  afraid  to 
show  much  impatience  or  interest. 

"The  lady  floated  just  hke  a  wather-lily  with  her  white 
gownd  spreadin'  out  all  round  her  .  .  .  And  begobs,  I 
couldn't   help   it  ...  in   I   went,  clothes   an'  all,  more 


420  LISHEEN 

betoken  ...  I  got  the  divil  an'  all  of  an  atin'  from 
Noney  about  them  ...  an'  shwam  to  her  .  .  .  Begor, 
she  was  as  cool  as  a  cucummber  .  .  .  bobbin'  up  an' 
down  ,  .  .  'Hould  up,'  sez  I,  'an'  don't  tetch  me  fer  the 
life  of  ye'  .  .  .  bekase,  these  wimmen  put  the  glaum  on 
you,  whin  they're  drownin'  .  .  .  an'  pull  you  down  wid 
'em  .  .  .  But,  begobs  .  .  .  this  wan  puts  her  hand  .  .  . 
on  me  showlder  ...  as  cool  as  if  we  wor  goin'  out  for  a 
dance  .  .  an'  I  pulled  her  safe  and  sound  .  .  .  from  the 
wathers." 

Maxwell  was  now  almost  excited ;  but  he  dared  not  say 
a  word;  and  after  a  long  pause  for  admiration,  Darby 
resumed : 

"Thin  kem  the  quarest  thing  of  all  .  .  .  bekase  .  .  . 
when  I  confronted  her  ...  I  saw  .  .  .  that  av  it  wasn't 
the  Ould  Bye  himself  in  the  shape  av  a  woman  .  .  .  an' 
they  say  he  appears  that  way  sometimes  ...  it  was  the 
Ould  Bye's  wife  .  .  .  She  wos  as  black  as  the  ace  of 
shpades  .  .  .  she  had  big  gowld  rings  in  her  ears,  an'  on 
her  arrums.  'Tank  you,'  sez  she,  'tank  you  very 
kindly,'  and  off  she  walked,  like  the  Queen  of  Shayba 
.  .  .  You  could  knock  me  down  wid  a  fedder!" 

"You  must  get  a  leather  medal  for  this,  Darby,"  said 
Maxwell.  "Only  you're  after  telling  a  danmed  pack  of 
lies.     You  were  poaching,  you  ruffian,  and  you  fell  in." 

"Pon  me  sowkins,"  said  Darby.  "An'  more  betoken, 
I  tink— " 

He  stopped  suddenly. 

"What  do  you  think?"  asked  Maxwell,  impatiently. 

"I  think,"  said  Darby,  "but  I  ain't  sure  and  sartin, 


AN  UNSOLVED  MYSTERY  421 

that  the  gintleman  wos  the  same  as  give  me  a  cowld  bath 
in  the  lake  before.     His  turm  have  come  now." 

Maxwell  jumped  up. 

"Outram?     Do  you  mean  Mr.  Outram?" 

"Begor,  I  don't  know  his  name  or  address,"  said  Darby. 
"But  I  think  'twas  the  same." 

"Why?  What  makes  you  think  so?  You  couldn't 
see  him?"  asked  Maxwell. 

"The  moon  wos  shinin',"  said  Darby,  "but  that  'ud 
make  no  differ.  But  I  think  'twas  the  way  he  dhrew 
himself  back  and  forrard.  I  knew  his  shtroke;  an'  a 
good  shtrong  shtroke  he  had." 

"And  the  woman?  The  lady?  You  never  saw  her 
before?" 

"Oh,  begor,  no!  I  can  take  me  Bible  Oath  on  that," 
said  Darby.  "If  she  wasn't  a  furriner,  or  a  wild  Injun, 
she  blackened  her  face  a  purpose." 

The  thought  was  opportune;  and  struck  Maxwell 
silent,  although  he  still  but  half  beheved  all  that  his 
henchman  said.     He  said  at  length: 

"How  many  have  you  told  of  this  affair?" 

"Divil  a  wan,  but  yer  'anner!"  said  Darby. 

"Not  even  Noney?" 

"Oyeh,  ketch  me!  You  can't  tell  the  thruth  to  a 
'uman.     You'd  never  hear  the  ind  of  it." 

"You're  quite  sure?" 

"Shure  and  sartin,"  said  Darby. 

"Then  keep  it  close,"  said  Maxwell.  "If  all  you  say 
is  true,  there's  a  mystery  somewhere,  and  you  may  get 
involved.  By  the  way,  did  you  ever  tell  anyone  about 
the  ducking  Outram  gave  you?" 


422  LISHEEN 

"  Divil  a  wan,"  said  Darby.  "  Oyeh,  what  am  I  sayin'  ? 
Yarra,  sure  I  tould  half  the  parish;  and  tould  'em  too 
that  I'd  be  even  wid  him  wan  day." 

"Precisely.  Now,  take  care,  and  keep  a  silent  tongue 
in  your  head;  or  that  may  come  against  you.  Many  a 
man  has  been  hanged  for  less." 

And  Maxwell  knew  that  he  had  closed  Darby's  tongue 
on  that  subject  for  ever. 

He  called  down  to  the  hotel  in  the  afternoon,  inquired 
and  found  that  Outram  and  Mabel  were  registered  as 
guests,  asked  to  see  them,  and  saw  Mabel  alone. 

She  was  anxious  and  terrified  enough;  and  made  no 
secret  of  the  cause,  Outram  had  dined,  and  gone  out 
and  had  not  been  seen  since.  He  had  been  much  fright- 
ened and  disturbed  these  last  days,  —  why,  Mabel  could 
not  conjecture.  He  had  been  anxious  to  change  from 
place  to  place;  and  appeared  to  be  haunted  by  some 
fear;  and  she  didn't  know.  She  feared  to  utter  what  she 
thought. 

The  hotel  was  in  commotion.  The  shadow  of  a  great 
fear  was  over  the  place.  Something  had  happened. 
There  was  one  being  at  least  in  terrible  distress;  and  she 
the  proudest  and  haughtiest,  who  would  not  deign  to 
speak  to  anyone.  It  was  interesting,  and  the  guests 
gathered  here  and  there  in  little  knots  and  nooks,  and 
whispered,  and  pointed,  and  conjectured,  as  is  the  way 
with  these  creatures,  when  one  of  their  class  is  in 
trouble. 

Then  a  search-party  was  organized,  with  Maxwell 
at  their  head.  And  they  had  not  gone  far  when  they 
found  the  shattered  punt  amongst  the  sedges  that  lined 


AN  UNSOLVED   MYSTERY  423 

the  lake,  and  later  on,  the  oars  floating,  and  later  on,  a 
man's  felt  hat,  which  was  unquestionably  Outram's. 
And  Maxwell  had  to  tell  Mabel  the  sad  news  there  in  the 
very  portico  of  the  hotel,  where  barely  twelve  months 
ago  Outram  was  showing  his  tahsman  to  an  admiring 
group,  and  he  himself  knew  that  it  was  all  over  between 
himself  and  his  fair  cousin  for  ever. 

He  was  uttering  the  usual  commonplaces,  "the  vacant 
chaff  well  meant  for  grain,"  that  are  said  on  such  occa- 
sions, when  a  lady  appeared,  and  just  behind  her  came 
a  perambulator,  pushed  by  a  dark  young  girl,  clothed  in 
white  but  for  a  red  sash  around  her  waist,  and  a  red  fillet 
in  her  hair.  The  lady  stopped  to  speak  a  word  of  sym- 
pathy to  Mabel;  the  perambulator  stopped  also;  and 
Maxwell  had  an  opportunity  of  studying  the  dark,  im- 
mobile features  of  Satara.  The  girl  looked  around  her 
in  a  cool,  impassive  way,  resting  her  great  eyes  solemnly 
on  Mabel,  and  just  glancing  incuriously  at  Maxwell. 
He  was  so  absorbed  in  his  study  of  her  that  he  was  quite 
oblivious  of  the  conversation  between  the  ladies,  until 
he  heard  the  words : 

"Yes!  it  was  a  sudden  and  dangerous  squall.  My 
ayah  was  out  also  for  a  walk,  and  came  home  drenched. 
I  feared  she  would  be  ill,  as  she  is  not  used  to  this  change- 
able climate." 

Satara  smiled,  showing  her  white  teeth,  and  passed  on 
with  the  perambulator. 

"Who  are  these?"  asked  Maxwell. 

"Anglo-Indians,"  said  Mabel,  with  a  little  shudder. 
"They  came  on  here  only  yesterday." 

"And  that  is  a  native,  I  suppose?"  he  asked. 


424  LISHEEN 

"Yes.  A  native  nurse,  who  has  become  attached  to 
them." 

"I  suppose  you  will  return  home  at  once,  Mabel,"  he 
said  kindly.  "I  fear  there  is  but  little  use  in  your  re- 
maining here." 

"I  should  like  to  remain,"  she  said,  "while  there  is 
still  a  Httle  hope." 

He  was  silent. 

After  a  pause,  she  said : 

"Ralph  was  about  to  visit  you  yesterday  afternoon, 
partly  in  courtesy,  partly  on  business.  Can  you  imagine 
what  it  was?" 

"I  suppose  about  that  wretched  ring.  Outram  at- 
tached a  superstitious  importance  to  the  thing." 

"I  wonder  would  it  have  saved  him?"  she  said  mus- 
ingly. "He  often  said:  'I  wish  to  have  it  back!  I  wish 
I  had  it  back!    I  should  not  have  parted  with  it.'" 

"I  don't  know!"  said  her  cousin.  "Perhaps  I  should 
have  sent  it  to  him.  It  was  useless  to  me.  But  you 
loiow,  Mabel,  he  had  a  way  of  setting  you  up  against  him 
by  the  manner  in  which  he  asked,  or  demanded  a  favour. 
He  was  so  peremptory.  I  suppose  it  was  his  Indian 
training." 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  said  meekly. 

"Well,  in  case  you  decide  to  leave  for  home,  that  is 
when  you  are  assured  that  all  hope  is  abandoned,  you'll 
send  for  me,  won't  you?" 

"Certainly.     I  shall  claim  your  help." 

Then,  after  a  pause: 

"I  haven't  asked  after  your  wife.     She's  well?" 

"Yes,  indeed.     But  I  haven't  heard  for  a  few  days." 


AN  UNSOLVED  MYSTERY  425 

"Then,  there  was  no  truth  in  the  newspaper  report 
about  your  father-in-law?" 

"What?"  he  cried.     "What  report?" 

"I  shouldn't  have  mentioned  it.  But  there  was  a 
paragraph  a  day  or  two  ago  in  the  paper  that  Mr.  Ham- 
berton  —  is  that  the  name  —  was  killed  in  a  heroic 
attempt  to  save  some  children  from  drowning!" 

"My  God!  I  never  heard  it.  This  comes  from  my 
hatred  of  newspapers.  What  paper  was  it,  Mabel? 
Wonder  Claire  never  wrote  me." 

"I  think  it  was  some  local  paper,"  she  replied.  "I'm 
sorry  I  told  you.  There  seems  to  be  some  Fate  pursuing 
us." 

Horrified  at  the  thought  of  Hamberton's  death,  Max- 
well soon  forget  all  about  Outram.  He  had  to  make  his 
own  preparations  for  leaving  immediately  for  home;  and 
gave  orders  to  have  his  tent  struck,  and  all  arrangements 
made  for  departure. 

All  that  weary  day,  Mabel  kept  her  room,  venturing 
out  but  once  or  twice  to  see  a  messenger,  take  a  telegram, 
or  send  a  message  to  her  father.  She  was  quite  prepared 
to  see  in  the  catastrophe  the  hand  of  Fate.  It  did  not 
come  quite  unexpected.  Strange  histories  end  strangely; 
and  a  career  of  duphcity,  if  not  of  crime,  could  only  ter- 
minate consistently  in  a  weird  and  tragic  manner.  Yet 
the  new-bom  love  that  Mabel  bore  towards  her  husband 
made  his  unhappy  death  doubly  painful.  The  woman's 
soul  was  disappointed  of  its  ambition  to  consecrate  and 
make  happy  a  life  that  she  had  rescued  from  worse  than 
-death.     It  was  a  sense,  therefore,  of  noble  sadness  that 


426  LISHEEN 

weighed  her  down,  a  sense  of  lost  opportunities,  —  of  a 
life,  which  she  might  have  ennobled,  just  snatched  from 
her  hand  by  Death.  Fortunately,  she  thought,  it  was  all 
natural  and  honourable.  Outram  had  not  gone  down  in 
disgrace,  nor  by  his  own  hand,  nor  under  dark  circum- 
stances. A  sudden  mountain  squall,  unforeseen  and 
unimagined;  a  frail  boat;  and  that  was  all.  At  least,  the 
lynx  eyes  of  society  could  see  nothing  there.  There 
could  be  no  room  for  scorn  in  the  pity  that  met  her  from 
so  many  eyes. 

One  thing  seemed  to  embarrass  her,  as  the  evil  day 
wore  on  towards  night.  She  found  that  she  never  left  her 
room  but  that  dark  Indian  girl  was  somewhere  in  her 
path.  In  the  corridor,  on  the  stairs,  everywhere  she  went, 
there  was  that  strange  girl,  sometimes  playing  with  the 
children,  sometimes  alone  and  crooning  some  old  Indian 
rhyme  about  her  gods;  sometimes  knitting,  as  those 
dreadful  tricoteuses  on  their  three-legged  stools  under  the 
guillotine  in  the  Terror;  but  always  there,  and  always 
rolling  round  her  great  eyes,  and  letting  them  fall  and 
bum  on  the  white,  beautiful  face  that  was  trying  to  con- 
ceal its  grief.  During  the  day,  Mabel  became  gradually 
uneasy.  Towards  night,  she  became  fascinated  and 
alarmed.  She  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  it.  Once,  in 
the  course  of  the  evening,  she  was- coming  down  the  stairs 
as  Sat^ra  was  going  up.  The  latter  stood  aside  and 
stared.  A  strong  Hght  fell  from  a  window  on  the  face  of 
the  girl.  Mabel  noticed  that  she  looked  old,  strangely 
old,  —  that  she  was  a  woman,  although  at  a  distance  she 
seemed  hardly  more  than  a  child.  And  there  was  always 
that   strange,  inquiring,  half-triumphant  stare  as  of  one 


AN  UNSOLVED  MYSTERY  427 

who  could  be  despised,  but  could  not  be  put  aside;  as  of 
one  who  seemed  to  claim  a  co-partnership  in  the  agony 
of  the  woman,  although  her  position  would  not  allow  her 
to  presume  to  express  it. 

As  the  evening  advanced  towards  night,  the  idea  sprang 
up  in  Mabel's  mind  that  in  some  mysterious  manner  this 
girl  was  connected  with  her  husband's  death;  and  it  was 
almost  with  a  gasp  of  pain  that  she  remembered  the 
words:  "My  ayah,  too,  was  out  for  a  walk,  and  came 
home  drenched." 

What  could  take  that  girl,  who  shivered  under  the  sun- 
shine, out  under  the  evening's  chills? 

But  then  the  idea  of  connecting  her  husband  with  this 
Indian  servant  was  preposterous;  and  Mabel  began  to 
fear  that,  owing  to  sleeplessness  and  anxiety,  perhaps 
her  own  imagination  was  conquering  her  reason.  But 
there  is  that  curious  subter-reason,  or  intuition,  or  what- 
ever you  wish  to  call  it,  in  some  minds  that  anticipates  all 
kinds  of  revelations,  and  jumps  at  its  own  conclusions 
with  a  sure  and  certain  foot.  And  Mabel  could  not 
shake  aside  the  fear  that,  if  the  mystery  of  her  husband's 
death  were  ever  unravelled,  it  would  be  found  that  this 
girl  was  not  altogether  unconnected  with  it. 

Haunted  by  the  thought,  she  was  proceeding  slowly 
upstairs,  just  about  eleven  o'clock,  as  the  oil-lamps  in 
the  hotel-corridor  were  about  to  be  extinguished,  when, 
on  turning  a  narrow  step,  she  almost  stumbled  against 
the  girl.  She  drew  back  with  a  certain  loathing,  which 
the  girl  was  not  slow  to  notice;  and  just  then  a  door 
opened  on  the  next  corridor,  and  a  lady's  voice  cried, 
in  a  suppressed  way: 


428  LISHEEN 

"Satara!  Satara!  be  quick!  The  lights  are  being  put 
out;  and  you  must  make  your  way  back  in  the  darkness!" 

Mabel  clutched  the  balustrade  with  one  hand;  and 
placed  the  other  over  her  beating  heart.  The  girl  saw  the 
gesture  and  smiled,  showing  her  white  teeth,  and  also 
two  deep  lines  around  the  mouth,  which  made  her,  to 
Mabel's  eyes,  an  old  and  haggard  witch. 

She  had  barely  strength  to  reach  her  room,  and  fling 
herself,  in  a  kind  of  paralysis  of  fear,  on  an  arm-chair. 

The  next  morning,  Maxwell  had  a  tiny  note  to  say  that 
his  cousin  had  all  preparations  made  for  her  journey  to 
Killamey  to  catch  the  up-mail  to  DubHn.  He  promptly 
obeyed  the  summons,  as  all  his  arrangements  had  been 
made,  merely  warning  Darby  that,  as  he  valued  his  life 
and  his  future  prosperity,  he  should  keep  a  closed  mouth 
about  all  that  he  had  witnessed. 

They  travelled  by  the  stage-coach  to  Killamey,  scarcely 
exchanging  a  word  by  the  way.  And  without  a  word 
Maxwell  saw  his  cousin  into  her  compartment,  provided 
all  necessaries  for  her  personal  comfort,  ordered  dinner 
at  6  P.M.  in  the  dining-car,  etc.  Then,  as  he  said 
good-bye,  his  eyes  hngered  a  moment  on  the  stony, 
impassive  face.  He  was  not  surprised  to  see  the  tears 
silently  gather  and  fall.  And  he  knew  that  the  tears  of  a 
proud  woman  are  tragic  tears. 

They  never  met  again. 

After  a  few  weeks  of  suffering,  and  longing  once  more 
to  see  the  face  of  "Bob,"  "Poor  Bob,"  the  old  Major, 
half-petrified,  was  gathered  unto  his  rest. 


AN  UNSOLVED   MYSTERY  429 

Mabel  went  abroad.  And,  sometimes,  in  the  great 
hotels  at  Vevey,  Montreux,  Cap  Martin,  etc.,  the  guests 
amused  themselves  by  watching  the  stately,  silent  figure 
of  the  girl,  whose  hair  was  prematurely  gray,  and  who 
walked  so  silently  and  gravely  from  the  dining-room, 
never  exchanging  a  word  with  themselves.  And  it  helped 
to  pass  pleasantly  the  winter  evenings,  when  someone 
proposed,  as  a  kind  of  charade,  the  conjecture  as  to 
whether  she  "had  a  story." 


CHAPTER  XXXVni 


QUASI  PER  IGNEM' 


Hugh  Hamberton  was  not  killed  by  his  fall  from 
the  cliff.  But  when  the  fishermen,  who  had  pulled  in 
furiously  to  save  the  children,  had  leaped  from  their 
boat,  and  placed  the  girls  in  safety,  they  found  much 
trouble  in  raising  him  from  the  waters  that  now  were 
seething  around  him.  He  was  quite  unconscious;  and 
all  that  they  could  do  was  to  raise  him  up,  and  take  him 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  waves,  until  his  carriage  would 
arrive  from  Brandon  Hall.  But  they  lifted  him  tenderly 
and  reverently,  as  a  hero,  who  had  probably  given  his 
life  to  save  little  children  from  a  terrible  death. 

And  when  the  news  of  the  event  had  reached  the 
village,  all  hands  struck  work,  and  hastened  to  assist 
in  every  way  the  brave  man  who  was  now,  and  for 
evermore,  enshrined  in  their  hearts.  Around  the  cottage 
fireside  for  many  a  night,  the  tale  was  told,  and  every 
circumstance  gone  over  again  and  again,  as  the  custom 
is  amongst  this  story-loving  people  —  the  call  of  the 
child  to  come  down  and  play,  the  cheery  response  of  the 
grave  Englishman,  whom  no  adult  dare  approach  or 
address  without  deference,  the  cry  of  the  fisherman,  the 
screams  of  the  girls,  the  gallant  manner  in  which  Ham- 
berton had  attempted  to  rescue  them,  his  fall,  etc.,  all 
were  narrated  with  some  poetical  exaggeration  that  only 
enhanced  his  reputation,  and  sent  it  far  and  wide. 

430 


"QUASI  PER  IGNEM"  431 

Claire  Maxwell  was  terribly  shocked  and  grieved;  but 
kept  her  feelings  to  herself  under  an  appearance  of  calm 
composure.  She  would  have  written  or  wired  to  her 
husband ;  but  waited  to  obtain  the  doctor's  verdict.  That 
was  soon  ascertained.  No  danger  to  Hfe,  but  probably 
hopeless  paralysis  from  spinal  injury.  It  was  terrible, 
but  it  might  be  worse ;  and  then  —  it  was  noble,  as  of 
wounds  taken  in  battle  in  some  glorious,  if  impossible, 
enterprise. 

After  some  days,  Maxwell  returned,  and  Hamberton 
recovered  consciousness.  For  some  time  his  recollection 
of  things  was  hazy;  then  the  whole  succession  of  ideas  and 
events  ranged  themselves  solemnly  before  him,  and  gave 
him  much  food  for  thought  during  the  weary  houi-s  that 
dragged  themselves  along  through  the  sick  man's 
chamber. 

Father  Cosgrove  was  one  of  the  first  to  call  and  offer 
his  sympathies.  He  was  elated  at  the  idea  that  his  friend, 
who  was  always  denying  and  protesting  against  Father 
Cosgrovc's  estimate  of  him,  had  betrayed  his  own  better 
self  in  this  glorious  manner.  Father  Cosgrove  had 
preached  to  his  own  congregation  a  sermon  on  the  event, 
taking  for  his  text: 

"Greater  proof  of  love  no  man  can  give,  than  that  a 
man  should  lay  down  his  life  for  his  friend." 

And  he  drew  tears  from  the  eyes  of  his  people  by  his 
picture  of  the  glorious  unselfishness  of  this  man,  rich, 
powerful,  and  with  all  the  accessories  of  happiness  at  his 
disposal,  sacrificing  all  freely  to  save  the  lives  of  little 
children.  And  a  mighty  torrent  of  love  and  admiration 
surged  around  the  lonely  couch  in  Brandon  Hall,  where 


432  LISHEEN 

the  invalid  was  now  and  for  many  a  long  day  to  be  im- 
prisoned. 

The  interview  between  Father  Cosgrove  and  his  friend 
was  very  touching.  They  silently  grasped  each  other's 
hands,  and  said  but  httle;  the  little  on  Hamberton's  part 
being  a  deprecation  of  all  the  popular  applause  and 
tumult  about  nothing. 

''Look  here,"  he  feebly  stammered,  holding  up  the 
many  newspaper  notices  that  had  been  written  about 
him,  "see  what  fools  men  can  make  of  themselves.  Now, 
there  is  how  reputations  are  made.  It  is  the  entirely 
hopeless  imbecihty  of  men  —  the  eternal  tomfoolery  of 
the  world." 

But  Father  Cosgrove  would  only  shake  his  head. 

"I'm  sure  now,"  Hamberton  would  continue,  "if  all 
the  great  names  and  great  deeds  of  the  world  were  ex- 
amined, it  would  be  as  easy  to  prick  the  air- bubbles  as 
this.  No  one  knows  a  man  but  himself;  and  unless  he 
is  a  fool  no  one  has  such  a  poor  opinion  of  a  man  as  him- 
self." 

"That  is  quite  right!"  Father  Cosgrove  would  say. 
"That  is  what  all  our  saints  are  never  tired  of  repeating." 

"Pah!  I  don't  want  your  saints  with  their  fastings,  and 
haircloth,  and  nonsense!  It  is  common  sense!  The 
confessional  of  every  honest  man  is  his  own  bedroom 
and  his  looking-glass.  There  he  admits  everything  to 
himself;  and  a  sorry  estimate  he  makes  of  his  little  god- 
head." 

"You  are  incorrigible!"  his  friend  would  say.  "But 
you  are  a  hero!     Nothing  now  can  change  that." 

"Even  you  do  not  know  me,"  Hamberton  would  reply 


"QUASI  PER   IGNEM"  433 

in  a  kind  of  despair.  "Look,  some  day  I'll  command 
you  to  tell  the  tmth  to  the  world.  I  can't  stand  this 
horrible  mask  of  hypocrisy." 

But  one  day,  after  he  had  railed  at  everything  and  every- 
body in  this  way,  just  as  Father  Cosgrove  was  leaving 
the  room,  he  called  him  back,  and  said: 

"Don't  be  too  proud  at  what  I'm  going  to  say." 

Then,  after  a  pause,  he  added: 

"After  all,  there  is  a  God!" 

When  the  first  shock  was  over,  and  all  that  medical 
skill  could  effect,  was  done  for  Hamberton,  Maxwell 
thought  the  time  had  come  when  he  might  visit  his  old 
friends  at  Lisheen.  He  was  safe  now.  The  report  of 
his  munificence  and  generosity  towards  these  poor  people 
had  been  wafted  far  and  wide;  and  by  degrees,  the  imag- 
ination of  the  people,  so  slow  to  disentangle  itself  from 
its  preconceived  ideas,  began  to  revolve  around  and 
finally  settle  down  on  the  fact  that  verily,  and  indeed, 
and  without  doubt,  Robert  Maxwell,  Esq.,  was  the  man 
who  had  served  as  swineherd  and  labourer  in  their  midst; 
and  this  for  the  noble  and  humane  purpose  of  ascertaining 
their  condition  with  a  view  to  its  betterment.  It  was  hke 
a  fresh  dawn  of  hope  in  the  growing  dusk  of  a  nation's 
despair;  for  as  yet  the  many  acts  of  the  legislature,  that 
have  revolutionized  the  condition  of  the  tenant  farmers 
of  Ireland,  had  not  been  placed  on  the  statute-book. 

If  Maxwell  were  one  of  those  dwarfed  souls  that  love 

popular  applause,  and  the  sound  of  futile  drums  and  still 

more  futile  cheering,  he  could  have  had  an  ovation  that 

would  have  made  any  of  the  leading  poHticians  green 

28 


434  LISHEEN 

with  envy.  But  he  shrank  from  such  things  as  indeli- 
cate and  somewhat  absurd;  and  he  felt  even  a  kind  of 
shyness  at  the  thought  that  he  would  have  to  face  these 
poor  people,  and  receive  their  honest  thanks. 

They  had  seen  that  everything  that  could  conduce  to 
the  comfort  and  ease  the  loneliness  of  the  poor  invahd 
had  been  done,  and  in  a  quiet  hour  of  a  still  autumn 
afternoon  Claire  and  Maxwell  drove  over,  after  luncheon, 
to  Lisheen. 

They  chose  the  road  which  Maxwell  had  travelled  the 
night  that  he  quitted  in  shame  and  remorse  the  humble 
roof  that  had  given  him  shelter;  and  as  they  went  he 
pointed  out  to  his  wife  the  places  where  he  had  stopped, 
the  thoughts  that  passed  through  his  mind ;  the  very  spot 
where  he  was  going  to  throw  all  up  in  despair,  and  creep 
in  amidst  the  bracken,  and  he  down  and  die;  the  lake 
that  gUnted  in  the  starhght,  the  river  that  murmured  on 
his  right  hand  and  directed  his  course,  the  labourer's 
cottage  where  he  had  obtained  a  Httle  food.  It  is  a 
pleasant  thing  in  prosperity  to  retrace  the  footsteps  of 
adversity,  and  recall,  with  all  the  dehght  of  the  contrast, 
the  mournful  thoughts  that  seemed  to  make  these  foot- 
steps in  blood. 

It  was  five  o'clock  when  they  turned  in  from  the  main 
road,  and  drove  slowly  up  along  the  boreen  that  led  to 
the  dwelHng-house,  Maxwell  still  pointing  out  each  spot 
with  its  own  association. 

"I  can  tell  you  I  was  footsore  and  weary  and  hungry 
enough  the  evening  I  came  along  here,"  he  said,  "and  I 
had  received  so  many  rebufifs  that  I  thought  the  dog 
would   be   set  loose   on   me   here.    Look,   there   I   lay 


"QUASI   PER  IGNEM"  435 

down  to  gather  myself  together,  and  pluck  up  a  little 
courage." 

They  reached  the  yard;  and  a  great  brown  collie 
came  out  to  challenge  them,  and  demand  their  busi- 
ness. 

Maxwell  whistled,  and  the  angry  dog  came  whining 
and  whimpering  and  fawning  upon  him. 

"You  remain  here  a  moment,  Claire,"  he  said,  dis- 
mounting, "I  should  like  to  enter  alone." 

Claire  remained  on  the  trap,  holding  the  reins  loosely, 
and  Maxwell  entered  with  the  old  salutation: 

"God  save  all  here!" 

Exactly  the  same  as  twelve  months  ago,  there  was  no 
one  there  but  the  old  vanithee,  and  she  was  crouching 
half-asleep  over  the  wood  and  turf-fire,  that  was  now 
dying  down  into  white  ashes,  although  the  pungent 
fragrance  of  it  filled  the  entire  kitchen. 

"God  save  you  kindly!"  she  said,  rising  up,  with  that 
air  and  tone  of  respectful  welcome  that  belong  to  these 
Irish  homes. 

"Where's  Owen,  and  Pierry,  and  Debbie?"  he  asked, 
coming  near. 

"Wisha,  thin,  yer  'anner,  I  suppose  they're  up  among 
the  praties  still.  The  days  are  drawin'  in,  an'  they  must 
hurry." 

"You  don't  know  me?"  he  said,  anxious  to  break  the 
spell  of  mystery  that  hung  around  him. 

"Wisha,  thin,  yer  'anner,"  she  replied,  peering  closely 
at  him  through  the  dusk  of  the  kitchen,  "you  have  the 
advantage  of  me,  but  sure  you're  welcome,  whoever  you 
are!" 


436  LISHEEN 

"You  said  the  same  words  twelve  months  ago  to  a  poor 
tramp  that  came  to  your  door?"  he  said. 

"I  did  thin;  an'  sure  'twas  God  brought  him  our  way; 
and  sure  'twas  well  he  repaid  us!" 

"'Tis  a  quare  thing,"  he  repHed,  dropping  into  the 
country  patois,  "that  a  man  could  be  six  months  under 
your  roof,  and  that  you  don't  recognise  him!" 

"Oh,  holy  mother  o'  God!  An'  it's  yer  'anner  that's 
shpakin'  to  me?  Oh,  wisha,  thin,  a  thousand  welcomes; 
and  'tis  well  you  deserve  it,  for  shure  all  we  have  is  yours." 

And  rubbing  her  hand  in  her  check  apron,  she  timidly 
held  it  out  to  him. 

He  grasped  it  in  his  own;  and  something  hke  a  sob 
came  into  his  voice,  as  he  said: 

"You  were  more  than  a  mother  to  me!  And  how  could 
I  forget  it  for  you?  But  run  out,  and  call  in  Owen  and 
Debbie  and  Pierry.     My  wife  is  here  in  the  yard." 

She  went  out,  set  the  great  dog  barking;  and  shouted 
with  her  feeble  voice  to  the  workers.  One  by  one  they 
dropped  in,  Debbie  first. 

The  girl  drew  back  the  moment  she  saw  Claire  in  the 
trap,  and  would  have  run  away,  but  it  was  too  late. 
When  she  entered  the  cottage,  she  flushed  crimson,  and 
then  turned  deadly  pale  when  Maxwell  held  out  his  hand. 
She  barely  touched  it  with  her  fingers,  holding  her  head 
aside ;  but  he  grasped  her  hand  firmly,  and  said : 

"Now,  Debbie,  we  must  be  friends  again.  I  am  not 
going  to  forget  so  easily  all  that  you  did  for  me,  when  I 
needed  it  most." 

The  strong,  fierce  pride  of  the  girl  kept  her  silent. 
She  found  it  impossible  to  conquer  her  rage  at  the  thought 


"QUASI  PER   IGNEM"  437 

that  they  should  be  under  such  supreme  obligations  to 
him.  She  disengaged  her  hand,  and  went  and  hid  her- 
self in  her  bedroom. 

When  Owen  and  Pierry  came  in,  the  former  greeted 
Maxwell  with  that  air  of  humble  deference  that  showed 
how  wide  he  deemed  the  gulf  that  separated  them.  And 
the  remembrance  of  his  rude  words  the  evening  of  the 
eviction  was  a  perpetual  source  of  remorse. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  in  the  tone  of  exaggeration  that 
seemed  to  him  most  fit  to  express  his  feehngs,  "if  we  lived 
for  ever  and  ever,  we  could  never  thank  yer  'anner  enough 
for  what  you  done  for  us!" 

"Don't  speak  of  it  now,"  said  Maxwell.  "But,  look 
here,  Mrs.  McAuliffe,  will  you  put  down  the  kettle,  and 
let  us  have  a  cup  of  tea  after  our  long  drive  ?  And  Pierry, 
run  out  and  put  up  the  pony,  and  let  Mrs.  Maxwell 
come  in." 

This  broke  the  ice  completely.  The  appeal  to  the  old 
woman's  hospitaUty  touched  her  deeply,  and  she  said, 
bustling  about: 

"Yerra,  thin,  yer  'anner,  with  a  heart  an'  a  half  I'll 
get  you  the  tay;  an'  if  the  missus  'ud  come  in  — " 

"She's  coming,"  Maxwell  said.  "And,  look  here,  get 
some  slices  of  your  own  home-made  bread  —  no  one  can 
make  bread  hke  you  —  I  often  told  my  wife  so;  and 
some  of  your  salt  butter.  We  are  as  hungry  as  wolves; 
and  we  have  a  long  drive  before  us." 

And  Pierry  went  out,  and  handed  down,  Hke  a  gentle- 
man, the  lady  from  her  trap;  and,  when  the  tea  was  ready, 
the  two.  Maxwell  and  his  wife,  sat  down  and  talked  and 
talked  and.  talked;  and   ftsked   questions  all  about  the 


438  LISHEEN 

farm,  and  the  crops,  and  the  cattle,  and  wanted  to  know 
what  else  could  be  done? 

"Done?  Oh,  Lord,  what  else  would  we  want,  if  we 
didn't  want  the  wurrld?"  said  Owen.  "Sure,  sometimes, 
we  say  'tis  all  a  dhrame;  an'  somebody  has  put  the  come- 
ther  on  us.  And  thin  we  have  to  go  out  an'  see  everythin' 
agin  all  over  —  the  new  house,  the  bams,  the  shtock,  the 
crops,  the  walls  an'  hedges  an'  ditches;  an'  thin  we  comes 
back  to  go  on  our  knees  and  thank  the  Lord  and  ax  him 
to  pour  down  blessings  on  yer  'anner  an'  on  yer  'anner's 
wife  all  the  days  of  yere  hves." 

And  so  with  all  mute  and  spoken  deference  and  grati- 
tude, these  poor  people  poured  out  their  souls  to  their 
benefactor;  and  Maxwell  felt  that  he  had  been  more  than 
amply  recompensed  for  his  outlay,  just  as  he  felt  that  he 
had  grown  in  all  mental  and  moral  stature  by  reason  of 
the  sharp  experience  he  had  passed  through  there  in  that 
humble  home. 

"I  suppose  I  could  hardly  keep  it  up,"  he  thought, 
"nor  would  I  care  to  repeat  it.  But  it  was  a  gift  of  the 
gods.     I  feel  that  I  am  moving  on  higher  levels  now." 

The  one  drawback  was  Debbie's  stubborn  refusal  to 
make  friends.  And  yet  Maxwell  was  not  sorry.  He 
pitied  the  girl;  but  he  knew  well  that  far  down  beneath 
her  rustic  rudeness  and  apparent  dishke  was  the  mis- 
placed love  for  himself. 

"Only  one  thing  is  wanting  now  to  your  happiness," 
said  Maxwell,  as  they  rose  to  go,  "you  must  get  Pierry 
here  married  as  soon  as  possible.  No  house  is  rightly 
blessed  unless  the  faces  of  little  children  are  there.  Isn't 
that  true,  Owen?" 


QUASI  PER  IGNEM"  439 

"'Tis  thrue,  yer  'anner;  and  I  begs  and  prays  the 
Almighty  to  bless  our  ould  age  with  the  sight  of  young 
faces.  But,"  —  he  dropped  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  and 
pointed  with  his  thumb  to  the  room  where  Debbie  was 
hiding,  "she's  thinkin'  of  goin'  over  to  her  sisters  in 
America  in  the  spring;  and  thin — " 

"I  don't  Hke  that  American  business  at  all,"  said  Max- 
well, angrily.  "Why  can't  Debbie  come  over  to  us,  and 
we'll  settle  her  there  for  Ufe?" 

The  old  people  shook  their  heads.  They  knew 
better. 

Pierry  had  got  out  the  trap,  and  was  stroking  down  the 
pony  and  handhng  the  fresh  brown  harness  with  all  an 
Irish  boy's  love  for  such  things,  and  they  were  instantly 
getting  under  way. 

The  old  man  came  out  to  say  good-bye,  but  drew 
Maxwell  aside.  Then  gulping  down  his  emotion  and 
nervousness,  he  said: 

"I  said  a  hasty  word  to  yer  'anner  the  day  of  the  evic- 
tion. God  knows  it  is  breakin'  me  heart,  night  an'  day, 
since,  an  sometimes  I  can't  shut  me  eyes  on  account  of 
it  —  Av'  yer  'anner  could  manage  to  forget — " 

"Now,  look  here,  Owen,"  said  Maxwell,  grasping  the 
rough,  homy  hand,  "if  I  hear  any  more  of  that  nonsense, 
I'll  recall  all  that  I  have  done  for  you.  Don't  I  know 
what  a  hasty  word  is  as  well  as  any  man  ?  and  to  tell  the 
truth  I  gave  reason  enough  for  it.  Here,  come  and  say 
good-bye  to  my  wife.  Pierry,  my  boy,  I  have  someone 
in  my  eye  for  you.  It  must  not  go  beyond  Shrove  at  any 
cost!" 

"All  right,  yer  'anner;  God  bless  you!"  said  Pierry. 


440  LISHEEN 

Then,  in  his  unbounded  admiration  of  the  trap  and  har- 
ness and  pony,  he  subjoined: 
"Isn't  she  a  beauty?" 

They  drove  merrily  homewards,  chatting  gaily,  about 
the  people,  their  ways,  their  gratitude,  their  trials.  Their 
hearts  were  hght,  because  they  had  the  consciousness  of 
having  done  noble  work.  Every  sacrifice  for  humanity 
reaps  its  reward  even  in  this  world. 

"What  utter  and  unforgivable  idiots  we  Irish  land- 
lords have  been!"  said  Maxwell.  "Here,  at  our  feet, 
were  the  most  loyal,  generous,  faithful  people  on  earth, 
who  would  follow  us  to  death  with  joy.  And  we  have 
trampled  them  into  sullen  and  disloyal  slaves,  with  hate 
and  vengeance  storming  their  hearts  against  us.  Talk  of 
'lost  opportunities.'  We  have  flung  to  the  winds  our 
dearest  interests,  —  our  countiy,  our  race,  our  happi- 
ness!" 

"Is  it  too  late?"  asked  Claire. 

"Yes,"  her  husband  said,  "in  the  sense  that  things 
never  now  can  be  what  they  might  have  been.  But  there 
may  be  a  chance  of  redress  as  yet.  The  people  are  for- 
giving and  generous.  But  can  the  leopard  change  his 
spots?" 

They  had  mounted  the  hill,  beneath  which  the  lake 
shone  in  the  starlight,  and  the  river  ran  down  to  the  sea, 
when  Claire  suddenly  started,  and  pointing  to  the  hori- 
zon, said: 

"That  cannot  be  the  rising  moon,  down  there  in  the 
southwest.  I  have  been  watching  it  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  it  seems  not  to  change." 


"QUASI  PER  IGNEM"  441 

"'Tis  a  big  blaze,"  said  Maxwell,  alarmed,  pushing 
on  the  pony. 

"It  seems  in  the  direction  of  Cahercon,"  she  said. 

"No,  it  is  more  southward,"  he  said,  though  he  did  not 
beheve  it.  "  I  expect  some  farmer's  rick  is  on  fire.  Those 
threshing  machines  sometimes  throw  out  sparks,  and  are 
dangerous." 

But  he  whipped  the  pony  onward;  and  with  eyes  fixed 
on  the  far-off  blaze,  which  showed  so  terribly  against  the 
darkness  of  the  night,  they  both  fell  into  silence.  When 
they  dipped  into  the  valley,  the  hills  shut  out  the  view  of 
the  fire.  But  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  reached  the 
level  plain  again;  and  soon  perceived  to  their  horror 
that  it  was  not  a  rick  of  hay  or  straw,  but  houses,  perhaps 
the  whole  village  of  Cahercon  that  was  being  wiped  out 
by  the  terrible  element. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

"one  of  us?" 

When  Maxwell  and  his  wife  turned  the  comer  of  the 
road  leading  to  the  village,  the  full  horror  burst  upon 
them.  Brandon  Hall  was  in  flames.  The  roof  had  fallen 
in;  and  the  fierce  fires  were  leaping  up  amidst  the  vast 
clouds  of  lurid  smoke,  which  they  turned  into  blood-red 
shadows  that  came  and  went,  as  the  wind  shifted  the  dense 
black  volumes  that  poured  fiercely  as  from  the  mouth  of 
a  furnace.  With  aching  hearts  and  darkest  forebodings 
of  evil  they  tore  madly  through  the  village  street;  and 
when  Maxwell  pulled  up,  and  threw  back  his  pony  on 
his  haunches,  the  animal  was  covered  vdth  the  white 
foam  of  its  sweat.  He  flung  the  reins  carelessly  aside, 
jumped  down,  and  tore  his  way  through  the  helpless  and 
wondering  peasantry.  He  was  afraid  to  ask  the  question 
that  was  on  his  lips,  as  he  came  in  front  of  the  mansion, 
and  saw  that  it  was  gutted  from  roof  to  cellar,  and  that 
only  the  walls  were  standing.  But  he  was  swiftly  an- 
swered: 

"He's  all  right,  sir!  The  masther  is  all  right!  He's 
up  at  Donegan's  Cottage!     Ned  Galwey  saved  him!" 

Thus  reassured  he  ran  back  to  his  wife,  but  she  had 
already  heard  the  news;  and  when  Maxwell  entered  his 
labourer's  cottage,  he  found  her  there. 

Hamberton  was  badly  shaken  and  unnerved :  but  other- 

442 


"ONE  OF  US?"  443 

wise  had  suffered  but  little.  It  appears  that  after  Max- 
well and  Claire  had  left  for  Lisheen  he  had  sunk  into  a 
doze  in  his  arm-chair,  from  which  he  was  rudely  awakened 
by  the  cry  of  "Fire!"  Unable  to  help  himself  or  to  rise, 
he  was  thinking  of  the  dread  possibiHty  before  him, 
when  one  of  his  servants  entered  his  room,  and  said,  in 
his  calm,  English  way: 

"The  'ouse  is  afire,  sir!  I  think  we  'ad  better  be 
amoving  hout!" 

"Certainly.     Get  some  help,"  said  Hamberton. 

The  man  vanished,  and  did  not  return. 

Hamberton,  now  thoroughly  dismayed,  made  an  effort 
to  save  himself,  but  fell  back  helplessly.  He  was  now 
face  to  face  with  the  Fate  he  had  so  often  wooed. 

As  yet,  no  trace  of  the  fire  was  visible  in  his  room;  but 
he  heard  that  deep,  distant  rumbling  of  the  terrible  ele- 
ment, and  the  cries  of  the  frightened  serv^ants,  and  the 
crash  of  furniture  and  heavy  timbers,  and  the  gathering 
of  the  crowd  outside,  and  their  awestricken  exclamations. 
And  then,  a  tiny  brown  cloud  gathered  in  beneath  his 
door,  and  soon  the  room  was  filled  with  the  choking 
vapour;  but  he  lay  helpless,  as  if  bound  with  chains, 
awaiting  the  final  stroke,  that  would  come,  he  thought, 
at  any  moment. 

Presently,  a  frightened  maid  burst  in,  and  cried: 

"Fly,  sir,  fly  for  your  life!  The  whole  house  is  in 
flames.     Nothing  can  save  it!" 

Hamberton  smiled  sardonically.  He  could  only  sit 
still  and  listen  to  the  ravages  made  by  the  conflagration; 
and  wonder,  would  the  floor  where  he  sat  fall  in,  and  cast 
him  into  a  furnace  of  fire;  or  would  the  smoke,  ever  grow- 


444  LISHEEN 

ing  thicker  and  thicker,  suffocate  him.  He  hoped  so. 
He  had  read  that  this  was  always  the  case  in  deaths  by 
fire.  The  victim  was  always  unconscious  before  the 
flames  actually  reached  him.  And  then,  it  was  only 
cremation  of  his  corpse;  and  surely  this  was  only  his  own 
last  instruction  to  his  executors. 

"Not  thus,  though,"  he  thought,  whilst  the  thickening 
fumes  choked  him,  and  made  him  cough.  "Clearly, 
there  is  a  God  guiding  things :  but  not  always  in  our  way. 
And  he  is  a  mocking  God,  who  plays  with  us  Uke  puppets. 
I  wonder  what  would  he  do,  if  I  spoke  to  him?" 

He  bent  his  head,  and  spoke  strange  things,  that  are 
not  to  be  found  in  any  ordinary  Prayer-book.  And  then 
he  laughed,  whilst  his  cough  grew  painful;  and  there  was 
a  growing  Constriction  in  his  chest,  that  seemed  to  make 
breathing  impossible,  and  to  set  his  heart  wildly  throb- 
bing. And  ever  and  ever  came  that  terrible  rumbling, 
as  of  a  great  earth-upheaval,  and  crash  after  crash,  as 
the  heavy  timbers  of  the  house  seemed  to  rip  asunder, 
and  to  fall  into  the  sea  of  fire.  Then  he  became  conscious 
of  the  carpet  smoking  beneath  his  chair,  and  presently 
little  jets  became  visible  between  the  boards. 

"It  is  the  end!"  he  said,  closing  his  eyes,  when  the 
door  was  burst  violently  open,  and  a  great,  gaunt  figure, 
its  head  wrapped  in  a  sheet,  broke  into  the  room. 

"Where  are  ye?  Where  are  ye,  yer  'anner?"  it  cried. 
"Quick,  quick,  for  the  luv  of  God!" 

"Here!"  said  Hamberton,  faintly,  whilst  he  felt  his 
eyes  painfully  throbbing,  and  he  could  hardly  breathe. 

In  an  instant,  a  strong  hand  had  wheeled  his  bath- 
chair  towards   the  great   window  that  faced   the   west. 


"ONE  OF  US?"  445 

There  was  a  crash  of  glass,  where  Ned  Galwey,  leaping 
on  the  sill,  drove  his  foot  again  and  again  through  the 
framework  of  the  window;  and  whilst  the  smoke  broke 
through  the  aperture,  Hamberton  felt  a  delicious  breath 
of  cool  night  air  on  his  forehead;  and  he  braced 
himself  to  make  one  last  fight  for  Hfe  with  his  brave 
rescuer. 

But  the  terrible  problem  now  confronted  them  how,  — 
could  Hamberton,  heavy  and  helpless,  be  removed  ? 
Galwey  had  shouted  down  through  the  smoke  to  bring 
the  ladders  around ;  and  this  was  speedily  done.  But  the 
window  was  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  from  the  ground, 
Hamberton  was  a  helpless  log,  the  fire  had  gained  from 
beneath,  and  the  floor  and  carpets  were  smouldering  in 
some  places,  blazing  in  others.  It  was  only  a  matter  of  a 
few  minutes  for  that  floor  to  fafl  in  and  bury  them  both 
in  the  furnace  beneath.  Hamberton  saw  it  all;  and,  re- 
vived to  consciousness  and  a  sense  of  sight  by  the  night- 
wind  that  sometimes  conquered  the  fierce  volumes  of 
smoke,  and  made  a  pleasant  draught  in  the  burning 
room,  he  shouted: 

"Jump  down,  Galwey!  Jump  dowTi,  and  save  your- 
self!    You  have  a  wife  and  family,  remember!" 

Galwey  pulled  by  main  strength  the  helpless  form  onto 
the  broad  window-sill,  and  there  for  a  moment  they  both 
rested.  They  could  see,  sometimes,  as  the  smoke  hfted 
or  cleared,  the  faces  of  the  crowd,  reddened  by  the  light 
that  shone  from  the  burning  room  beneath  them.  There 
was  a  great  cheer,  when  the  ladders  having  been  placed 
against  the  window-sill,  the  faces  and  forms  of  the  two 
helpless  men  were  seen;  and,  as  is  usual  in  an  Irish  crowd, 


446  LISHEEN 

there  were  sundry  suggestions,  uttered  in  all  keys  of 
excitement,  none  of  which  was  really  practicable. 

Again  Hamberton  ordered  Galwey  to  leave  him  to  his 
fate  and  save  himself. 

"There's  no  use,  Galwey,"  he  cried,  with  a  choked 
voice,  "we  cannot  both  go  down.  Quick,  while  there's 
time,  and  save  yourself." 

"You  wance  did  me  a  wrong,  yer  'anner,"  said  Ned. 
"I  want  to  show  you  now  how  I  can  repay  it." 

A  terrible  suspicion  crossed  Hamberton's  mind.  All 
the  old  prejudices  against  these  truculent  Irish  seemed 
to  flash  up  in  an  instant.  He  is  going  to  take  a  terrible 
revenge,  he  thought.  But  the  next  instant,  he  dismissed 
the  base  suspicion.  And  Galwey,  coolly  taking  off  the 
wet  sheet  that  had  already  shielded  his  eyes  and  face 
from  the  flames,  threw  it  around  Hamberton's  head. 
Then  slowly  creeping  out,  he  planted  one  foot  on  the 
first  rung  of  each  ladder,  shouting  to  the  people  beneath: 

"Hould  hard  for  yere  Uves  there  below,  and  throw  all 
ye  re  weight  against  the  ladders."  There  were  plenty 
volunteers  to  do  the  work. 

Then  he  drew  the  helpless  form  of  Hamberton  head 
foremost  through  the  window,  and  never  lost  nerve, 
although  they  shouted  from  beneath : 

"Hurry,  Ned,  the  fire  is  breaking  through  the  window, 
and  will  ketch  the  ladders." 

It  was  a  moment  of  supreme  anxiety,  when  the  whole 
dead-weight  of  Hamberton's  body,  freed  from  the  sup- 
port of  the  window,  fell  on  the  devoted  fellow.  But, 
accustomed  to  great  emergencies  and  trials  of  muscular 
strength  in  his  daily  avocation  as  labourer  and  fisherman. 


"ONE  OF   US?"  447 

he  was  equal  to  the  call.  And  bracing  himself  carefully 
against  the  two  ladders,  he  bore  the  first  shock  with 
safety.  Then  carefully  feeling  downwards  with  his  feet, 
he  held  the  helpless  burden  safe  with  his  strong  shoulders 
and  arms.  The  flames  breaking  from  the  room  beneath 
through  the  shattered  window  caught  both  sometimes, 
and  burned  their  hands  and  clothing.  But  at  length 
they  reached  the  ground,  and  within  the  help  of  friendly 
hands,  and  fell  into  the  arms  of  an  exultant  and  trium- 
phant crowd. 

When  Maxwell,  therefore,  entered  Donegan's  cottage, 
after  a  few  inquiries  had  been  made,  Hamberton  ordered 
him  to  go  at  once  and  see  after  the  condition  of  his  brave 
deliverer.  This  was  worse  than  was  supposed.  Ned 
had  been  badly  burned  before  he  had  reached  Hamber- 
ton's  room.  The  left  sleeve  of  his  coat  had  been  com- 
pletely destroyed  in  his  fight  with  the  flames,  as  he  tore 
bHndly,  and  with  covered  head,  through  the  hall  and  up 
along  the  stairs;  and  the  flesh  from  shoulder  to  arm  was 
badly  scorched.  Yet  he  made  nothing  of  it.  Maxwell 
was  dumb  before  such  heroism.    He  could  say  nothing  but : 

"Keep  it  well  covered;  and  above  all,  let  no  water 
touch  it,  until  my  wife  comes  up!" 

"Is  the  masther  all  right?"  asked  Ned,  heedless  of 
himself. 

"He  is,  my  poor  fellow,  except  for  some  slight  bruises. 
This  night  won't  be  forgotten,  you  may  be  sure!" 

"  He  done  good  to  the  people,"  said  Ned.  "  He  desarved 
a  good  return." 

"And  he  has  got  it,"  said  Maxwell.  "You'll  have  no 
reason  to  regret  what  you  have  done." 


448  LISHEEN 

"I  want  nothing,"  said  Ned.  "But,  maybe,  yer 
'anner " 

He  stopped  suddenly. 

"Well?"  said  Maxwell. 

"Maybe  yer  'anner  would  ax  the  masther  not  to  say 
anny  more  about  the  'Ghosht'  or  the  'praties'  ?" 

For  this  was  the  eternal  jest  of  Hamberton,  who,  in  the 
boat,  on  the  road,  —  everywhere,  never  ceased  nagging 
poor  Ned  about  the  famous  adventure;  quite  unconscious, 
we  may  presume,  how  his  words  galled  and  burned  the 
heart  of  his  victim. 

"All  right,  Ned!"  said  Maxwell.  "I  promise  you  you'll 
never  hear  of  them  again!" 

"  God  bless  yer  'anner,"  said  Ned. 

They  talked  over  the  matter,  Claire  and  Hamberton 
and  Maxwell,  during  these  days,  when  the  destruction 
of  Brandon  Hall,  and  all  its  treasures,  gave  them  plenty 
of  leisure  to  think.  They  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
just  as  in  the  Army  the  Irish  soldiers  may  break  the 
hearts  of  their  officers  in  barracks,  and  the  heads  of  their 
enemies  in  the  field,  so  in  civil  hfe,  if  their  little  ways  are 
tantaHzing,  and  quite  opposed  to  English  ways  and 
methods,  they  can  always  be  depended  on  in  a  great 
crisis,  where  their  loyalty  and  fidelity  are  in  question. 

"I'll  never  have  an  English  servant  in  my  house  again!" 
said  Hamberton.  "Damn  them.  You  saw  how  they 
ran  that  night!" 

And  when  Father  Cosgrove,  proud  of  his  people,  called 
to  offer  his  condolence  to  his  friend,  he  was  at  once  shut 
up. 


"ONE  OF  US?"  449 

*'I  don't  want  to  make  you  too  conceited,"  said  Ham- 
berton,  "but  I  must  make  another  admission.  You  re- 
member, I  said  there  was  a  God!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  priest. 

"I  wish  to  add  something  else." 

The  priest  waited. 

"Men  are  not  all  bad!" 

Slowly  but  majestically  a  beautiful  chateau  in  the 
Louis  Quatorze  style,  faced  with  red  and  white  brick, 
arose  from  the  ruins  of  the  burned  house,  and  fronted 
the  ever-heaving  and  tossing  and  restless  sea.  Slowly 
but  surely  new  works  were  erected,  and  cottages  built, 
and  larger  enterprises  opened.  Slowly  but  surely  a 
happy  and  thriving  and  industrious  population  grew  up 
around  the  "Great  House":  a  population  knitted  in  the 
firmest  bonds  of  loyalty  to  those  who  were  protecting  and 
helping  them. 

And  any  one  of  these  fine  days  you  may  see  a  bath- 
chair,  in  which  is  an  invahd  gentleman,  rolled  slowly 
along  the  beach  by  a  one-armed  man.  A  soldier?  Well, 
yes!  Had  been  under  fire  ?  Yes,  again.  And  wounded  ? 
Yes,  once  more!  It  is  our  friend  Ned.  The  arm  had 
to  be  amputated  in  Cork.  But  no  matter.  He  need 
work  no  more.  And  the  old  man  is  very  gentle  and 
patient ;  and  has  never  again  even  whispered  to  Ned  about 
the  "Ghosht"  or  the  "praties." 

But  Darby  Leary?    Have  we  forgotten  Darby?     By 

no  manner  of  means.     Darby  is  all  right.  Down  there 

in  the  lodge,  built  also  in  Louis  Quatorze  style,  I  sup- 
29 


450  LISHEEN 

pose,  to  suit  Darby's  tastes,  is  the  neatest  little  snuggery 
of  a  home  within  the  four  seas  of  Ireland.  Red  and  white 
brick  facings,  diamond  window-panes,  riotous  and  volup- 
tuous creepers  without;  and  within,  such  neatness  and 
comfort  and  snugness  that  sometimes  Noney  says  it  is  all 
a  "dhrame,"  an  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainment,  from 
which  some  day  she  will  wake  up  to  see  the  old  thatched 
roof  over  her  head,  and  the  pit  of  green  and  yellow  slime 
before  her  door. 

But  this  cannot  be.  Because  that  lovely  brick  fireplace 
is  a  reality;  and  that  tiled  floor  is  a  reahty;  and  those 
white  beds  there  in  the  Httle  recess  are  reahties ;  and  — • 
here  is  a  young  Noney,  her  father's  treasure  and  delight, 
a  reaUty  in  yellow  curls,  and  blue  eyes,  and  pink  cheeks; 
and  greatest  reahty  of  all,  here  in  the  cradle  are  the  Im- 
mortal Twins.  They  are  the  torment  of  Darby's  Hfe. 
Noney  is  all  right;  and,  when  hoisted  in  Darby's  arms, 
she  plucks  with  her  little  pink  fingers  Darby's  moustache, 
(for  Darby  has  now  a  red,  bristling  moustache,  fierce  as 
that  of  a  French  sabreur),  he  shrieks  out,  but  tolerates  it, 
because  Noney  is  the  Hght  of  his  eyes.  But  those  twins! 
"Dang  them!"  Darby  says,  but  always  beyond  his  wife's 
hearing.  They  were  duly  christened  Jeremiah  and 
Daniel.  Here  comes  in  another  question.  Why  have  the 
Irish  selected  these  two  of  the  four  major  prophets  as 
patronymics  so  popular  that  every  second  boy  in  Ireland 
is  Jerry  or  Dan?  But  Isaiah  and  Ezekiel  are  nowhere. 
And  if  any  unhappy  boy  sported  these  names,  his  Hfe 
would  be  evermore  a  torment.  But  to  return,  Jeremiah 
and  Daniel  emerged  from  the  baptismal  waters  good 
Christians  with  respectable  names;  but  alas!  they  rapidly 


'ONE  OF  US?" 


451 


descended  into  the  more  prosaic  and  humble  forms  of 
Jerry  and  Dan.  Now,  here  is  Darby's  great  trial.  He 
cannot  distinguish  the  twins.  He  can  no  more  tell  which 
is  Jerry  and  which  is  Dan  than  he  can  distinguish 
Castor  and  Pollux  in  the  heavens. 

Noney  has  not  the  slightest  trouble  about  the  matter. 
With  absolute  unerringness,  she  can  distinguish  her 
boys,  although  she  admits  that  "they  are  as  alike  as  two 
pays";  and  she  waxes  indignant  when  Darby  comes  home 
to  his  dinner,  and  Noney  happens  to  have  Jerry  in  her 
arms,  and  Darby  affectionately,  but  foohshly,  strokes  the 
boy's  head,  and  asks,  how  is  his  Danny  to-day? 

"This  isn't  Danny,  you  fool!  This  is  Jerry.  Anywan 
can  see  that!" 

"Oh,  of  coorse,"  Darby  would  say.  "Of  coorse,  it  is 
Jerry.     Shure  anywan  would  know  that!" 

But  to-morrow  the  same  mistake  occurs;  and  Danny  is 
taken  for  Jerry,  and  Jerry  for  Danny,  promiscuously. 

It  is  in  the  cradle,  however,  the  great  trouble  arises. 
It  is  an  understood  thing  that  Jerry  occupies  the  place  of 
honour  on  the  right  and  Danny  is  relegated  to  the  left. 
One  would  suppose  there  could  be  no  mistake  here. 
But  Darby,  though  he  knows  his  right  hand  from  his  left, 
and  boasts  of  the  knowledge,  is  sorely  tried  to  know 
which  is  the  right-hand  side  of  the  cradle,  and  which  the 
left-hand  side.  And  the  trouble  is  aggravated  because 
the  cradle  happens  to  be  but  a  fiat  soap-box,  with  no 
canopy,  or  other  distinguishing  characteristic;  and,  as 
Noney  slews  it  around  to  every  point  of  the  compass,  poor 
Darby  is  in  an  ecstasy  of  anxiety  every  time  he  comes 
home  and  is  called  upon  to  distinguish  them. 


452  LISHEEN 

"Av  coorse,"  he  says,  "Jerry  is  to  the  right.  That's 
there!"  pointing  to  his  own  right  hand.  "An'  Danny  is 
there!"  pointing  to  the  left. 

"Well,  you're  the  biggest  omadhaun  the  Lord  ever 
made!"  his  wife  remarks.  "Didn't  I  tell  you  twinty 
times  that  that's  Jerry,  and  that  that's  Danny?" 

"Av  coorse,  av  coorse,"  says  Darby.  "Shure  anywan 
would  know  that.  Shure  'tis  Darby,  me  own  namesake, 
that  have  such  purty  curls  an  his  forehead." 

"'Tisn't  then,"  his  wife  replies,  "that's  Danny,  that 
have  the  curls.     But  Darby  is  growing  them  too!" 

"Av  coorse,  av  coorse!"  Darby  replies.  "But  I 
wouldn't  give  the  two  av  'em  together  for  Noney.  Come, 
Noney,  come!  There,  acushla!"  as  the  child  nestles  in 
his  arms,  and  mingles  her  silken  curls  in  her  father's 
carrotty  locks;  ^'acushla  machreel  us  two  agin  the  world! 
What  do  we  care  for  thim  ould  twins?  Aren't  you  me 
own  little  Cailin  Ban?  Aren't  you  the  pulse  of  me 
heart,  m'ainim  no  shtig!  m'ainim  machree!  Phew! 
There,  look,  you're  hurtin'  me.  Phew!  There!  We'll 
throw  out  thim  ould  twins,  an'  keep  thegither  always, 
won't  we,  alanna?" 

And  the  original  Noney  takes  up  the  dialogue,  and 
talks  back  to  the  twins;  and  the  atmosphere  waxes  warm, 
and  Darby  is  glad  to  get  out  into  the  cool  sunlit  air,  and 
talk  all  his  love  nonsense  to  Noney  undisturbed. 

And  sometimes  Claire  comes  down,  wheeling  gaily  her 
own  perambulator  up  to  Noney's  cottage,  and  compares 
her  own  brown  baby  with  the  twins;  and  they  talk  in  the 
motherly  dialects  that  are  as  old,  I  suppose,  as  Eve; 
and  almost  invariably,  after  these  little  interchanges  of 


"ONE  OF  US?"  453 

compliments,  certain  little  baskets  come  down  from  the 
"Great  House";  and  Darby  has  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
on  his  kitchen  table  the  "two  kinds  of  mate"  that  were 
ever  and  always  to  his  mind  the  outward  and  visible  sign 
of  that  mighty  gift  of  the  gods  —  prosperity. 

Robert  Maxwell  has  one  misgiving.  He  knows  his 
happiness,  and,  Hke  a  sensible  man,  enjoys  it.  He  knows, 
too,  that  he  has  chosen  the  better  part,  when  he  compares 
his  present  position  with  that  of  the  club-frequenting, 
fox-hunting,  rack-renting,  mindless,  and  '  godless  class, 
whose  days  must  be  filled  with  ever-increasing,  ever- 
changing  excitement,  to  save  them  from  suicidal  mania. 
Life  to  him  is  Duty.  But,  sometimes,  he  thinks  he  has 
earned  his  honours  too  cheaply.  True,  the  remembrance 
of  those  awful  nights  which  he  spent  staring  into  the 
darkness,  until  the  faint  pencils  of  the  dawn  drew  be- 
neath the  hideous  thatch  the  white  canvases  of  the 
cities  of  the  spiders;  of  the  days  that  went  by,  in  fog  and 
mist,  so  slowly  that  he  thought  they  would  never  again 
darken  into  night;  of  the  aches  and  pains  that  racked  his 
feeble  muscles  under  the  unaccustomed  exercise  of  work; 
of  the  loneliness  that  filled  his  soul,  cut  away  from  all 
famihar  associations  with  his  own  class;  of  the  loathing 
of  rough  food,  and  coarse  raiment;  of  that  awful  sickness 
with  its  deHrium,  when  he  cried:  Eloi,  Eloi,  lama  sa- 
hacthani!  Of  his  mistakes,  his  humiliation,  his  anguish 
under  misconception,  his  separation  from  those  he  re- 
spected and  loved;  of  their  contempt;  of  public  hatred 
and  dishke;  of  imputed  crimes  of  which  he  was  never 
guilty;  finally,  of  the  gaol,  the  white- washed  walls,  the 
shame  of  arrest,  the  desecration  of  a  policeman's  hands  on 


454  LISHEEN 

his  shoulder;  —  all  this,  of  course,  made  him  feel  that  he 
had  passed  well  through  his  novitiate  of  sorrow,  and  had 
borne  well  the  "Test  of  the  Spirits." 

Nevertheless,  and  most  of  all  in  these  sweet  summer 
evenings  when  all  were  gathered  down  there  on  the  beach, 
and  the  spent  seas  came  fawning  in,  and  skies  were  daf- 
fodil in  the  west ;  and  when  he  looked  around  and  saw  his 
people  made  happy  by  his  benevolence,  and  sharing  with 
a  noble  and  reverential  equality,  the  society  of  their 
benefactors;  when  his  eyes  fell  on  labourers  resting  from 
their  toils,  and  happy  mothers  crooning  over  their  children, 
and  the  young  people  dancing  in  fairy  rings  to  the  sound 
of  flute  or  fiddle;  and  above  all,  when  his  thoughts  came 
back,  and  he  remembered  the  sad  fate  of  Outram,  and 
the  banishment  of  his  cousin,  and  saw  in  the  place  she 
should  have  occupied  the  companion  of  his  cares  and  of 
his  triumphs,  he  thought,  with  that  strange  depression 
that  comes  in  the  hour  of  success,  that,  after  all,  there 
might  have  been  something  even  better — the  farewell  to 
a  world  he  would  have  served,  not  under  the  glitter  and 
glamour  of  triumph,  but  in  the  very  agony  of  crucifixion. 
For  then,  he  thought,  he  might  have  had  a  claim  to 
the  red  robe  and  palm  of  martyrdom,  which  after  all, 
are  more  glorious  than  the  laurels  and  regaHa  of  one 
who  has  fought,  and  suffered,  and  triumphed.  There  is 
some  hidden  nobility  in  failure,  when  the  cause  itself  is 
great." 


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Orrain.     Crown  Svo,  51.50. 


STAEYECJtiOW    FAEM 

A    NOVEL 

By    STANLEY  J.   WEYMAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE,"  "  UNDER  THE  RF.D  ROBE,"  ETC. 


Crown    8vo.     With    8    Illustrations.     $1.50 


"  .  .  .  It  is  an  exciting  tale,  with  further  thrilling  episodes.  Mr.  Weyman 
has  used  his  narrative  gift  to  good  purpose  in  this  book,  and  has  also  shown 
all  his  old  skill  in  the  delineation,  if  not  in  the  creation,  of  character. 
Though  no  single  figure  in  '  Starvecrow  Farm  '  has  the  weight  of  fascina- 
tion of  many  a  figure  in  the  author's  stories  of  old  French  life,  all  the 
actors  in  the  present  volume  are  vividly  set  forth.  Henrietta  is  an  en- 
gaging young  woman  ;  Gypsy  Bess,  her  rival,  is  delightfully  picturesque, 
and  not  in  a  long  time  have  we  met  so  likable  a  scold  as  Mrs.  Gilson,  who 
presides  over  the  inn  chosen  for  most  of  the  scenes." — New  York 
Tribune. 

"  It  is  the  best  thing  he  has  written  in  some  time,  and  it  will  gain  him 
new  admirers  while  holding  the  old.  It  begins  with  an  elopement,  there's 
kidnapping  in  it,  and  the  interest  is  never  allowed  to  flag.  All  in  all, 
it's  a  rattling  good  story." — Leader,  Cleveland,  Ohio. 

"Mr.  Weyman  introduces  just  enough  history  into  his  romance  to  meet 
the  approval  of  a  host  of  readers.  He  never  fails  to  attach  the  reader's 
interest  at  the  beginning  by  plunging  him  into-  the  midst  of  a  tangle  of 
human  interest,  nor  does  he  fail  to  keep  the  tangle  sufficiently  involved  to 
hold  that  interest  to  the  last  page.  .  .  ." — Living  Church. 

"...  The  story  is  as  exciting  as  anything  that  Weyman  has  ever  written, 
but  there  is  nothing  overdrawn  in  it,  unless  it  be  the  firmness  and  obstinacy 
of  the  young  girl.  The  many  characters  in  the  book  are  well  drawn,  and 
one  of  the  best  is  the  kind-hearted  landlady  with  the  sharp  tongue,  who  is 
the  best  defender  of  the  friendless  girl.  Incidentally  the  reader  gets  a 
good  picture  of  the  time,  with  its  popular  ignorance,  its  superstition  and 
its  extreme  bigotry." — Chronicle,  San  Francisco. 

"...  Readers  who  enjoy  a  plot  with  many  windings,  and  one  that  con- 
tains, in  a  pronounced  degree,  the  elements  of  surprise,  suspense  and  peril, 
will  have  ample  entertainment.  .  .  .  " — Argonaut,  San  Francisco. 

"...  Rural  England,  a  few  years  after  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  provides 
the  background  for  this  thrilling  narrative  of  a  girl  who  eloped  with  one 
man  only  to  marry  later  the  other  man  from  whom  she  ran  away.  But 
between  the  two  episodes  occurred  many  exciting  events.  An  admirably 
told  and  dramatic  tale." — Record-Herald,  Chicago. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


THE  ABBESS   OF  VLAYE 

A  ROMANCE 
By  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 

AUTHOR    OF  "  A    GENTLEMAN    OF    FRANCE,"   "  UNDER   THE    RED    ROBE," 
"COUNT   HANNIBAL,"    ETC.,    ETC. 


With  a  Frontispiece,  Crown  8vo.    $1.50 


"This  is  an  interesting  and,  at  times,  highly  dramatic  book.  It  is 
superior,  even,  to  'Under  the  Red  Robe'  and  'A  Gentleman  of  France,' 
which  are  reckoned  the  two  most  striking  of  his  novels.  A  marked  and 
skilful  feature  of  '  The  Abbess  of  Vlaye '  is  that  it  rises  constantly  towards 
a  chmax;  indeed,  the  last  part  of  the  book  is  notably  stronger  than  the 
earUer  part.  .  .  .  One  of  the  charms  of  Mr.  Weyman's  writing,  empha- 
sized in  this,  his  latest  book,  is  its  comprehension  of  detail  in  a  few  sen- 
tences. .  .  ." — Evening  Post,  New  York. 

"...  Mr.  Weyman  demonstrates  once  more  that  not  only  can  this 
kind  of  romantic  novel  be  made  conspicuously  fascinating,  but  he  estab- 
lishes himself  anew  as  easily  the  foremost  writer  of  this  kind  of  fiction. 
He  has  imagination  and  in  unusual  degree  the  art  of  investing  a  period 
with  atmosphere.  This  gallant  tale  has  color,  movement  and  spirit,  and 
is  well  told,  with  deft  touches  and  dramatic  situations,  adroitly  \  in- 
aged." — Times,  Brooklyn. 

"...  The  scene  in  the  next  to  the  last  chapter,  in  which  the  abbess 
and  her  captain  sit  at  table  together,  considering  their  plans,  is  developed 
by  the  author  with  all  his  art,  and  we  count  it  among  his  most  brilHant 
achievements.  'The  Abbess  of  Vlaye'  is  a  first-rate  piece  of  romantic 
narrative.  Its  heroine  is  a  type  true  to  history,  true  to  himian  nature, 
and,  in  a  sinister  way,  altogether  fascinating." — Tribune,  New  York. 

".  .  .  As  in  other  romances  based  on  French  history,  Mr.  Weyman 
displays  a  thorough  understanding  of  the  time,  the  place  and  the  people 
of  which  he  writes.  'The  Abbess  of  Vlaye,'  indeed,  is  worth  more  as  a 
picture  of  the  time  than  simply  as  a  romantic  story.  Either  phase,  how- 
ever, offers  much  of  absorbing  interest  even  to  the  most  jaded  reader  of 
historical  fiction." — Transcript,  Boston, 

".  .  .  the  most  interesting  that  he  has  written  for  several  years.  .  .  ." 
— Republican,  Springfield,  Mass. 

"...  There  is  the  charm  of  the  unusual  love  story  and  abundance  of 
exciting  adventures,  all  wrought  into  a  dramatic  unity.  The  author  is 
entirely  at  home,  and  makes  us  at  home,  in  the  story  of  the  period.  Since 
'A  Gentleman  of  France'  he  has  given  us  no  better  example  of  his 
talent." — Congregationalist. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


IN  KINGS'  BYWAYS 

By  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "  K  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE,"  "  COUNT  HANNIBAL,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


With  a  Frontispiece  by  George  Varlan.     Crown  8vo,  cloth, 
ornamental,  S1.50 


"  Capital  short  stories  of  France,  written  in  Mr.  Weyman's  well-known 
vein.'" — Outlook,  New  York. 

■'  .  ,  .  The  tales  and  episodes  are  all  so  good  that  it  is  hardly  fair  to 
Mr.  Weyman  to  say  some  are  better  than  others."' — Times,  Boston. 

"...  About  this  author's  stories  there  is  a  dash,  and  a  nerve,  and  a 
swing,  and  a  'go  "  that  no  other  surpasses  though  he  has  many  imitators.  .  .  . 
The  opening  story,  '  Flore,"  is  marvelously  intense  in  plot,  and  its  execution, 
with  a  play  of  action  and  incident  and  thrilling  situation  that  is  incessant.  Every 
Story  in  the  book,  for  that  matter,  is  a  masterpiece."" — Commercial,  Buffalo. 

"The  twelve  stories  .  .  ,  are  full  of  that  romantic  charm  which  he  has 
communicated  to  his  more  elaborate  works  of  historical  fiction.  .  ,  .  His 
historical  portraits  are  never  overdone,  they  are  always  sketched  with  equal 
restraint  and  precision.     The  book  is  abundantly  entertaming. " 

— New  York  Tribune. 

"  Stanley  Weyman  was  the  leader  in  the  general  revival  of  the  historical  and 
romantic  novel,  and  he  is  still  one  of  the  best  writers  in  this  field.  .  .  .  '  In 
Kings'  Byways  *  are  stories  of  different  periods,  but  Mr,  Weyman  is  always  at 
his  best  when  dealing  with  Henry  of  Navarre  or  the  generation  just  before.  In 
his  hands  Old  France  lives  again,  picturesque  and  absorbing.  All  these  stories 
.  .  .  are  finished,  artistic  and  gracefully  told.  The  novelette  '  For  the 
Cause'  is  probably  the  most  powerful  thing  Mr.  Weyman  has  ever  written." 

— New  York  World. 

"...  Mr.  Weyman's  latest  book,  '  In  Kings'  Byways,'  is  inevitably  of 
the  class  that  entertains.  And  that  it  does  entertain  is  sufficient  justification  lor 
its  writing." — Transcript,  Boston. 

"It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  these  tales  are  worth  the  reading.  They  re- 
late with  a  quality  that  cannot  be  denied  the  highest  praise,  tales  of  love  and 
war  and  court  and  highway.  Not  one  of  them  is  dull,  not  one  to  be  passed  over 
as  not  worthy  of  attention.  All  are  dramatic,  all  good  in  form,  and  if  one  must 
be  selected  from  out  the  rest  as  best,  'The  House  on  the  Wall'  is  chosen."' 

— Courier-Journal,  Louisville,  Ky. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


STELLA  FREGELIUS 

A  Tale  of  Two  Destinies 
By   H.   RIDER   HAGGARD 

AUTHOR   OF   "king   SOLOMON'S  MINES,"   "SHE,"   ETC. 


Crown  8vo,  $1.50 


"...  while  Stella  Fregelius  is  a  wide  departure  in  style  it  is  of»e  of 
the  most  interesting  books  Mr.  Haggard  has  ever  given  us  .  .  .  the 
struggles  of  the  young  inventor  to  perfect  the  aerophone  are  only  incidental  to  a 
story  of  remarlcable  psychological  force.  Queer  it  may  be  called  in  a  sense, 
but  certainly  this  is  one  of  the  most  absorbing  narratives  that  IVIr.  Haggard  has 
overwritten,    .     .     ." — Chronicle-Telegraph,  Pittsburgh. 

"...  The  story  is  full  of  the  charm  of  expression  that  made  Haggard 
so  popular.  It  is  full  of  human  interest  throughout.  There  is  nothing  dull 
about  the  story,  and  the  whole  world  of  literature  will  read  it  with  interest  and 
be  entertained  by  it."— The  Worcester  Spy. 

"...  It  is,  in  fact,  radically  different  in  scheme  and  treatment  from 
Mr.  Haggard's  previous  stories,  but  for  all  that  it  bears  the  stamp  of  his  genius 
and  will  prove  fascinating  to  all  readers.  It  is  called  a  '  tale  of  three  destinies,' 
and  is  at  once  mystical,  philosophical,  and  full  of  '  human  interest."  There  are 
touches  of  humor,  also,  and  altogether  the  story  is  worthy  of  Mr.  Haggard." 
— Democrat  and  Chronicle,    Rochester. 

'•  .  .  .  The  story  is  of  absorbing  interest.  Like  most  of  this  author's 
novels  the  style  is  brilliant,  easy,  and  clear.  The  narrative  will  of  necessity  be 
follov/ed  with  breathless  interest  from  beginning  to  end.  The  plot  is  well  con- 
structed. Mr.  Haggard  controls  the  evolution  of  the  story  with  the  true  art  that 
leaves  an  impression  of  absolute  naturalness." — New  York  American. 

"...  To  give  even  the  complete  outlines  of  his  new  story  .  .  . 
would  require  many  columns  for  the  simple  catalogue  of  the  varied  experiences 
of  the  splendidly  portrayed  characters.  The  story  is  of  absorbing  interest. 
Like  most  of  this  author's  novels,  the  style  is  easy,  brilliant,  and  clear." 

— Mail,  Halifax,  N.  S.,  Can. 

"  The  main  idea  of  this  new  story  by  one  of  the  most  daring  inventors  of  the 
modern  tale  of  adventure  is  a  novel  one,  the  enlistment  of  the  services  of  science 
in  the  search  for  a  knowledge  of  the  hereafter,  the  employment  of  an  instrument 
for  the  transmission  of  one  of  the  earthly  senses  in  the  opening  up  of  communi- 
cation with  the  spirit  world  .  .  .  the  invention  which  serves  him  in  these 
pages  is  that  of  a  wireless  telephone,  which  is  to  call  back  the  departed  across 
the  chasm.  .  .  .  Mr.  Haggard  has  written  a  story  that  is  much  of  a  nov- 
elty from  him,  and,  truth  to  tell,  it  is  far  more  interesting  than  would  be  another 
tale  of  Jerusalem  or  South  African  wonders  from  his  pen." 

— Mail  and  Express,  New  York. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


PEARL-MAIDEN 

A  Tale  of  the  Fall  of  Jerusalem 
By  H.   RIDER  HAGGARD 


With  26  Full-page  Illustrations  by  Byam  Shaw 
Crown,  8vo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1.50 


"...  The  story  is  of  absorbing  interest.  It  is  very  seldom 
that  one  runs  across  an  historical  novel,  the  plot  of  which  is  so  ably 
sustained.  Something  interesting  happens  in  every  chapter.  There 
are  some  delightful  love  passages,  for  no  novel  can  be  considered 
perfect  without  a  little  of  that.  The  story  has  zest  and  is  full  of 
adventure.  The  style  is  brilliant,  easy  and  clear.  The  narrative 
will  be  followed  with  breathless  interest.  The  book  is  beautifully 
Vrinted,  handsomely  bound,  and  profusely  illustrated.     .     .     ." 

— Eau  Claire  Leader,  Wis. 

'  .  .  .  It  is  one  of  the  best  books  that  Mr.  Haggard  has 
written  for  several  years.  ...  It  contains  two  or  three  scenes 
of  uncommon  strength;  the  arena  scene,  with  the  Christian  martyrs, 
^n  the  opening  pages,  the  sale  of  Roman  slave  girls,  near  the  close. 
It  is  not  a  book  which  can  be  read  through  in  a  brief  half  hour  or 
two,  and  it  does  not  permit  tlie  attention  to  wander.  Altogether  it 
is  a  book  which  deserves  a  wider  notice." 

— Commercial  Advertiser,  New  York. 

"     .     .  there  is  vigor,  charm,  and  doubtless  historical  value 

in  the  pictures  which  Mr.  Haggard  draws  of  dramatic  events  and 
splendid  pageants  that  will  never  lose  interest  and  significance  to  a 
world  yet  shaken  by  their  influence." — Outlook,  New  York. 

"...  'Pearl  Maiden'  must  be  ranked  among  his  bes* 
books.  It  is  full  of  adventure,  of  terrible  dangers  met  on  the  battle- 
field and  elsewhere  ...  is  from  beginning  to  end  absorbing. 
Never  has  Mr.  Haggard  been  more  inventive  or  more  skilful.  His 
plot  is  well  constructed,  and  he  controls  the  evolution  of  the  story 
with  the  art  that  leaves  an  impression  of  absolute  naturalness.  We 
must  add  a  good  word  for  the  numerous  illustrations  by  Mr.  Byam 
Shaw.  They  are  cleverly  drawn  with  the  pen,  but  they  are  even 
more  to  be  praised  for  the  freshness  and  variety  with  which  they 
have  been  designed." — New  York  Tribune. 

"  .  .  .  '  Pearl  Maiden  '  is  a  more  convincing  story  than  any 
he  has  written  about  imaginary  kingdoms  .  .  .  there  is  no 
reason  why  it  should  not  rival  the  popularity  of  'She'  and  'King 
Solomon's  Mines,'  and  in  any  event  it  will  be  sure  to  find  many  fas- 
cinated readers.  ...  It  is  the  best  story  Mr.  Haggard  has 
written  in  recent  years." — Republican,  Springfield,  Mass. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,    91-93  FIFTH  AVE..    NEW  YORK 


LUKE  DELMEGE 

p.  A.  SHEEHAN,  Parish  Priest,  Doneraile,  Co.  Cork 

AUTHOR   OF   "MY   NEW  CURATE** 


Crown  8vo,  $1.50 


"  This  is  an  exceedingly  powerful  and  absorbing  book.  Beginning  with  the 
true  artistic  quiet  and  restraint,  it  strengthens  and  broadens  in  power  and  inter- 
est until  it  moves  on  like  a  great  procession.  .  .  .  It  is  a  novel  but  it  is  more 
than  that.  It  is  a  great  sermon,  a  great  lesson,  almost  a  great  drama.  .  .  . 
We  cordially  commend  '  Luke  Delmege '  for  its  lofty  purpose  and  thought,  its 
adequate  diction,  and  its  high  incentive  .  .  .  there  is  in  it  an  occasional 
touch  of  humor  which  is  very  welcome  and  which  is  truly  Irish  in  its  nature. 
Altogether  we  consider  '  Luke  Delmege  '  the  most  notable  religious  novel  that 
has  been  written  within  a  year. " — The  Sun,  Baltimore,  Md. 

"  One  of  the  triumphs  among  the  works  of  fiction.  .  .  .  It  is  an  extremely 
interesting  tale  of  Irish  life,  full  of  profound  erudition,  and  withal  replete  with 
incident  and  pathos. " — Monitor,  St.  John,  N.  B. 

" '  Luke  Delmege  '  is  in  some  respects  a  greater  accomplishment  than  its 
predecessor.  If  it  has  not  such  exuberance  oi  humor,  its  theme  is  more  vital 
and  the  work  itself  more  substantial.  It  is  a  book  which  philosophers  and  se- 
rious students  will  enjoy  almost  as  thoroughly  as  the  chronic  novel-reader.  .  . 
No  other  author  has  given  us  such  a  series  of  clerical  portraits  ...  a  story 
oi  which  Catholics  may  well  be  proud.  It  is  of  classic  quality,  and  generations 
hence  it  will  be  read,  enjoyed,  and  lauded  as  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  English 
fiction.  "—Ave  Maria,  Notre  Dame,  Ind. 

"  This  is  loftier  work  than  '  My  New  Curate,'  and  its  influence  will  be  stronger 
and  grander.  It  is  a  wonderful  story,  with  something  in  its  passionate  pleading 
for  the  supremacy  of  the  mystical  that  recalls  a  mediaeval  saint  emerging  from 
his  solitude  to  denounce  the  world  and  to  summon  the  few  elect  to  the  business 
of  their  salvation.  .  .  .  We  freely  pass  upon  the  book  the  judgment  that  it 
is  worthy  to  live  with  the  very  best  we  have  of  noble  and  uplifting  fiction." 

— Catholic  News,  N.  Y. 

"  Father  Sheehan's  latest  work  is  in  many  respects  his  best.  It  is  a  more 
pretentious  literary  effort  and  a  more  finished  work  than  '  My  New  Curate.' 
.  .  .  .  His  characters  are  strong  and  lifelike.  All  things  considered  '  Luke 
Delmege '  is  one  oi  the  best  things  that  have  been  published  lately." 

— Rosary  Magazine,  N.  Y. 

"  We  have  just  read  '  Luke  Delmege,"  and  of  all  the  books  of  the  year,  ser- 
mon or  song  or  story,  we  put  it  first.  ...  In  this  new  work  he  adds  a  new 
glory  to  his  fame— a  place  in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen  forever." 

— Freeman's  Journal,  N.  Y. 

LONGMANS,  GEEEN,  &  00.,  91-93  IIPTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOEK 


GLENANAAR 

A  NOVEL  OF  IRISH  LIFE 
By  the  Very  Rev.  P.  A.  SHEEHAN,  of  Donertae 

AUTHOR  OF  "  MY  NEW  CURATE,"   "  LUKK  DELMEGB,"  BTC 


Crown    8vo.      SI. 50 


"  It  is  a  beautiful  story,  full  of  the  pathos  and  wit  which,  like  mist  and 
sunshine,  so  aptly  combine  to  produce  the  rainbow  glories  of  the  Irish 
character." — American  Ecclesiastical  Review. 

"...  Is  a  good  story  of  Irish  life,  with  a  fine  thread  of  romance  running 
through  it.  .  .  .  If  you  like  a  good,  strong,  clean  humor,  and  your  heart  still 
thrills  to  the  tune  of  simple  love,  you  will  do  well  to  read  it." 

— St.  Louis  Republic. 

"...  Will  especially  appeal  to  those  who  know  and  love  Irish  life  upon 
its  native  heath,  though  the  well-told  tale  is  so  full  of  humor,  pathos,  and 
romance  that  it  cannot  fail  to  win  the  interest  of  every  reader.  .  .  .  Into  the 
story  are  written  many  of  the  most  beautiful  and  characteristic  traits  of 
the  Irish — their  inextinguishable  love  of  country,  their  devotion  to  family, 
their  generosity,  their  courage,  their  purity  of  life,  and,  withal,  their  hatred 
of  'an  informer,'  even  unto  the  third  and  fourth  generations.  .  .  .The 
book  will  awaken  many  a  responsive  chord,  and  will  prove  illuminating  as 
well  as  interesting  to  those  who  have  but  a  misty  apprehension  of  things 
Irish.  It  is  an  illustration  of  the  value  of  a  book  written  from  within, 
and  coming  hot  from  the  heart." — New  York  Times. 

"...  It  is  a  well- written  tale.  .  .  .  Canon  Sheehan  gives  his  readers  a 
strong  vital  and  intimate  picture  of  the  social  life  of  the  people  in  the  two 
decades  before  the  great  famine.  In  several  ways  '  Glenanaar  '  is  as  good 
as  anything  that  has  come  from  this  author's  pen." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  This  is  probably  the  best  book  that  Father  Sheehan  has  yet  written,  in 
its  pictures  of  Irish  scenes;  its  portrayal  of  Irish  character;  and  the  pathos 
and  tragedy  which  everywhere  crowd  its  pages,  relieved  at  times  by  flashes 
of  true  Irish  humor.  .  .  .  " — The  Messenger. 

"...  A  splendid  story  full  of  humor  and  pathos.  — New  Yorker. 

"  Canon  Sheehan  has  given  us  an  excellent  picture  of  Irish  life  in  his 
novel.  ...  In  this,  as  in  others  of  Canon  Sheehan's  works,  there  is  a  close 
intimacy  with  the  life  of  the  Irish  peasantry,  and  every  side  of  the  versatile 
Irish  nature  is  so  well  depicted  that  we  see  the  characters  as  they  exist  on 
Irish  soiL    It  is  a  good  book." — Public  Ledger,  Phila. 


LONGMANS,  GKEEN  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


BARHAM  OF  BELl  ANA 

By    W.    E.    NORRIS, 
AUTHOR   OF    "matrimony/'   "mLLE.    DE  MERSAC/'  ETC. 

Crown  8vo.   $1.50. 


"The  man  who  gives  the  book  its  title,  a  rich  Tasmanian  with  a  grievance 
against  the  world,  has  certainly  about  as  disagreeable  a  way  with  him  as  could 
be  imagined.  But  Mr.  Norris  seems  to  have  made  up  his  mind  on  this  occasion 
to  tell  a  beguiling  love  story,  and  to  let  it  go  at  that.  .  .  .  For  the  rest,  this 
book  is  occupied  with  the  most  persuasively  romantic  transactions.  .  .  .  The 
result  is  a  capital  story,  written,  moreover,  with  a  literary  finish  which  we  have 
long  been  accustomed  to  expect  from  this  novelist.  It  is  the  kind  of  story  to 
win  popularity,  and  we  hope  that  the  success  it  is  pretty  likely  to  achieve  will 
convince  him  of  the  wisdom  of  continuing  in  his  present  mood." — N.  Y. 
Tribune. 

"The  reader  is  genuinely  sorry  when  the  last  page  is  reached.  .  .  .  The 
book  has  an  added  charm  from  the  novelty  of  its  locality.  ...  is  a  thor- 
oughly enjoyable  book.  Mr.  Norris  must  'do  it  again,'  and  the  next  time  he 
must  permit  us  to  tarry  longer  with  him  in  that  fascinating,  topsy-turvy  Eng- 
land lying  south  of  the  equator." — New  York  Times. 

•  _  .  .  We  have  a  story  that  is  quietly  effective  without  indulging  in 
dramatic  extravagance.  .  .  .  The  characters  are  few  in  number,  but  they 
are  exceedingly  well  drawn.  .  .  .  It  is  just  the  one  to  entertain  during  a 
quiet  hour  after  the  cares  that  infest  the  day  have  departed." — Beacon,  Boston, 


ORRAIN 

By    S.    LEVETT-YEATS. 
AUTHOR  OF   "the   CHEVALIER   d'aURIAC/'   "tHE   HONOR  OF   SAVELLI,"  ETC. 


Crown  8vo.   $1.50. 

"...  it  is  one  sure  to  be  read  from  cover  to  cover,  if  the  light  hold* 
out  to  burn.  .  .  .  One  is  irresistibly  led  on  through  the  crowding  dangers 
of  a  troublesome  time,  to  that  final  general  duel  which  ends  the  work.  It  is  a 
tale  of  France  with  a  Huguenot  heroine,  as  lovely  as  she  is  fearless,  while  the 
invincible  hero  belongs  to  the  Old  Faith.  .  .  .  Altogether,  an  unusually 
cliarming  and  absorbing  historical  romance." — Kansas  City  Star. 

"  ....  is  well  told  and  thrilling.  So,  too,  are  various  incidents  and 
passages  that  precede  and  lead  up  to  this  effective  climax.  And  not  the  least 
evident  art  of  'Orrain'  makes  some  of  the  participating  characters,  notably  the 
queen,  the  vidame  and  the  king's  favorite,  so  real  that  they  arouse  sharp  dis- 
taste or  sympathy  and  linger  in  the  memory  long  after  the  book  has  been 
closed.  It  is  a  stirring  story,  well  prepared,  well  considered,  well  written  It 
may  be  warmly  commended  to  those  who  are  pleased  with  fire,  action  and 
romance." — Record-Herald,  Chicago. 

"One  of  the  new  novels  of  the  present  publishing  season  which  is  justly  dis- 
tinguished above  nearly  all  of  its  fellows.     ...      It  possesses  universal  merit 
both  as  a  story  and  as   literature,  being  a  well-told  tale  which   attracts  interest 
at   the   outset    and    holds    it    through    a    series  of   exciting    adventures." 
Courier,   New  York. 

"...  Into  the  details  of  the  plot,  of  which  there  are  many,  it  is  not 
necessary  or  advisable^  to  go,  for  this  could  not  be  done  without  spoiling  the 
pleasure  many  will  find  in  reading  an  exceptionally  good  story.  .  .  .  It  is 
safe  to  say  that  anyone  who  has  enjoyed  'Marguerite  de  Valois,'  'Chicot,  the 
Jester,'  or  'The  Forty-five  Guardsmen'  will  enjoy  'Orrain.'  " — Public  Opinion. 


LONGMANS.  GREEN  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVE..  NEW  YORK. 


LOVE'S    PROXY 

A   NOVEL   OF    MODERN    LIFE 
By    RICHARD    BAGOT 

AUTHOR    OF    "CASTING    OF    NETS,"    "DONNA    DIANA,"    ETC, 


Crown  8vo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.50 


"Mr.  Richard  Bagot  has  already  won  a  high  reputation  as  a  novelist,  and 
his  new  book  will  certainly  help  to  maintain  it." — Daily  Mail,  London. 

''A  novel  of  modern  society,  by  a  writer  who  guides  a  keen  and  incisive 
pen,  and  who  is  an  artist  in  delmeating  character  .  .  .  The  theme  is  strongly 
handled  and  the  unobtrusive  moral  makes  for  righteousness." 

— Detroit  Free  Press. 

"Cleverly  conceived  and  told  in  the  true  comedy  vein  of  well-balanced 
humor  and  pathos.  The  dialogues  are  perfectly  natural.  This  is  of  the  very' 
best  in  the  art  of  novel-writing.  A  more  pleasant  and  evenly  interesting  book 
it  is  not  often  one's  lot  to  read." — Punch,  London. 

"...  A  person  loses  much  pleasure  who  has  not  known  the  charm  of 
'  D  inna  Diana,'  '  The  Casting  of  Nets,'  and  now  '  Love's  Proxy,'  which  is  to  my 
mina  the  most  fascinating  of  them  all.  This  time  Mr.  Bagot  has  left  his  beloved 
Italy,  which  he  knows  by  heart  .  .  .  and  betaken  himself  to  England  and 
English  society,  and  here  as  well  as  there  he  makes  a  marked  success.  . 
The  story  is  cleverly  conceived  and  brilliantly  executed.  Mr.  Bagot  is  an  artist, 
and  one  has  an  intense  and  quiet  enjoyment  of  his  plot,  his  philosophy,  and  his 
knowledge  of  human  nature  and  the  world." — Portland  Daily  Advertiser. 

"...  He  has  portrayed  several  types  of  character  with  unerring  skill, 
and  has  written  a  novel  that  is  well  worth  while." — Press,  Philadelphia. 

"...  The  story  herein  is  well  wrought:  its  style  distinguished  without 
fulsome  resort  to  epigram  ;  its  setting  is  that  of  English  politics  and  high  life. 
Its  heroine  is  scathless  and  enigmatical,  her  husband  is  rich  and  good,  her  lover 
never  forgets  himself  till  the  denouement,  and  even  then  recovers  in  time,  while 
she  is  always  stanch,  both  frank  and  politic.  Her  manner  of  treating  other 
women  is  a  lesson  in  fine  behavior.     .     ." — Literary  World. 

"  .  .  .  The  characters  introduced  are  mainly  from  the  higher  walks  of 
English  society,  and  they  are  skillfully  delineated  and  effectively  contrasted. 
The  heroine  is  fascinating,  but  not  very  lovable  until  near  the  conclusion  of  the 
story.     ,    ." — The  Beacon,  Boston. 

"  A  knowledge  of  human  nature  and  a  powerful  gift  of  portraying  it  is  observed 
in  '  Love's  Proxy.     .     .     " — Boston  Herald. 

"...     a  story  out  of  the  well-worn  track,  well  told  and  interesting.     .     ." 

— Times,  Gloucester,  Mass. 

"The  real  story  has  to  do  with  a  woman  who  can't  love  her  husband     . 
Mr.  Bagot's  talent  is  versatile.     He  has  a  broad  humor  for  one  page  and  a  tear- 
compelling  touch  for  another.     Time  given  to  the  reading  of  '  Love's  Proxy* 
is  not  time  that  is  lost." — The  Chicago  Evening  Post. 


LONGMANS,   GREEN,   &    CO.,   91-93    FIFTH  AVENUE,   NEW  YORK 


DONNA   DIANA 

By  RICHARD  6AG0T 

AUTHOR  OF  "  CASTING  OF  NETS,"  "  A  ROMAN  MYSTERY,"  ETC 


Crown  8vo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  $1 .50 


*•  Richard  Bagot's  fiction  has  always  striking  qualities,  and  his  latest  nov(^ 
Donna  Diana,' is  by  far  his  best    .     .     .     as  a  story  it  is  sure  of  success.'' 

— The  Living  Age,  Boston. 

•*  The  story  is  well  told,  full  of  color  and  vivid  scene." 

— St.  Louis  Republic. 

"Whether  Mr.  Richard  Bagot  has  really  penetrated  the  recesses  of  Roman 
Catholic  consciousness  we  may  not  know,  but  certainly  if  what  he  writes  is  not 
true,  it  has  a  marvelous  appearance  of  it.  .  .  .  Of  the  story,  as  a  story,  we 
have  space  to  say  only  that  it  is  well  told,  and  holds  the  interest  for  its  own  sake 
unflagging  to  the  end." — Churchman,  New  York. 

"  A  brilliant  and  charming  romance." — Scotsman. 

"  ,  .  .  A  Roman  story  with  a  vigorous  and  powerful  setting  and  an 
abundance  of  plot  and  intrigue.  It  is  a  mighty  good  story,  well  told,  and  there 
are  very  few  books  of  this  season  that  will  have  as  large  and  delighted  a  circle 
of  readers." — Herald,  Saratoga  Springs,  N.  Y. 

"...  Equals  Marion  Crawford's  books  in  the  capable  and  certain 
handling  of  his  characters  in  the  picturesque  but  tortuous  highways  of  the 
Roman  world  of  to-day.  He  gives  a  detailed  view  of  the  domestic  customs  and 
social  life  of  the  aristocracy  and  tells  at  the  same  time  an  absorbing  love  story." 

— Item,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 

"  .  .  .  It  is  an  absorbing  story,  containing  a  constant  conflict  between 
bigotry  and  open-mindedness,  between  evil  and  good.  Mr.  Bagot  takes  his 
readers  into  the  homes  of  his  Roman  friends,  and  with  much  care  and  detail 
describes  their  domestic  and  social  life,  such  as  is  rarely  given  to  a  foreigner  to 
observe. " — Eagle,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 

"  .  .  .  There  is  not  a  particle  of  let-up  in  interest  from  cover  to  cover. 
As  one  enters  the  city  gates  via  the  first  chapter,  he  is  loth  to  quit  the  interest- 
ing company  of  friendships  he  makes,  both  secular  and  churchly,  until  he  knows, 
as  far  as  the  author  reveals  it,  the  destiny  of  each  of  the  personages  who  par- 
ticipate in  the  making  of  a  capital  story." — Transcript,  Boston. 

"...  Mr.  Bagot's  substantial  knowledge  of  Roman  life  has  contributed 
a  great  deal  toward  giving  vitality  to  the  social  groups  depicted  in  the  pages  of 
'  Donna  Diana,'  and  there  is  much  else  that  gives  the  romance  considerable 
\iuman  and  artistic  effect." — Baltimore  Sun, 


LONGMANS.  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE.  NEW  YORK 


THE    MANOR   FARM 

By  M.  E.   FRANCIS   (Mrs.    FRANCIS    BLUNDELL) 

AUTHOR  OF  "  PASTORALS  OF  DORSET,"    "  FIANDER'S  WIDOW,"  ETC 


With  Frontispiece  by  Claud  C.  Du  Pre  Cooper.    Crown  Bvo« 
cloth,  ornamental,  $1.50 


"  Quaint  humor  of  the  richest  quality  is  written  in  the  pages  of  Mrs.  Blun> 
dell's  new  book.  .  ,  .  When  two  great  and  well-to-do  cousins  plan  the 
welfare  of  their  names  needs  the  marriage  of  their  children,  the  trouble  begins. 
No  one  has  yet  shown  greater  skill  than  our  author  in  weaving  the  green  and 
gold  pattern  of  young  life.  The  growth  of  these  two  young  people  from  child- 
hood, the  betrothal,  the  almost  necessary  hitch  in  affairs,  for  such  is  human 
nature,  the  very  natural  solution,  Mrs.  Blundell  has  made  delightful,  humorous, 
and  wholly  artistic.  It  is  the  finest  of  character  drawing,  for  the  men  and  womea 
are  not  too  proud  to  be  human,  nor  bad  enough  to  be  uncompanionable." 

— Living  Church,  Milwaukee. 

"A  real  treat  is  in  store  for  the  readers  of  '  The  Manor  Farm.'  .  .  .  It  is 
a  r.  we  and  picturesque  story  of  English  country  life,  with  just  enough  dialect 
to  show  that  the  people  are  genuine  country  folk." 

— Churchman,  New  York. 

"...  A  delightful  story,  told  in  a  delightful  way.  It  is  what  you  may 
call  a  complete  story  .  .  .  giving  you  quaint,  rich  and  wholesome  descrip- 
.■jon  of  men  and  things  on  an  English  farm.  It  is  one  of  the  few  novels  of  the 
jear  worth  passing  around  the  family — or,  perhaps,  better  yet,  reading  in  the 
assembled  family." — Unity,  Chicago,  III.     ' 

'*  Wholesome  and  sweet  as  the  scent  of  growing  clover  is  the  atmosphere  of 
this  charming  pastoral  tale  of  English  yeoman  life  Written  in  the  easiest  and 
most  unaffected  style  it  narrates  with  much  animation  and  humor  the  fortunes 
of  two  branches  of  a  certain  family  of  farmer  folk.  .  .  .  The  '  love  interest '  is 
as  artless  and  innocent  as  it  is  engaging." — Independent,  New  York. 

"  A  pretty  rustic  love  story  .  .  ,  The  story  is  thoroughly  readable  and 
clean." — New  York  Sun. 

"...  The  story  is  excellently  written.  The  English  peasants  who  figure 
in  it  speak  an  odd  local  dialect  that  gives  originality,  never  unnaturalness  to  the 
style  ...  the  story  ends  pleasantly,  as  such  an  idyl  should.  The  book 
rings  true,  and  deserves  a  cordial  reception." — Record-Herald,  Chicago. 

"  This  is  a  wholesome  romance  of  the  Dorsetshire  country.  It  concerns  the 
endeavors  of  two  farmer  cousins  to  bring  about  the  marriage  of  their  son  and 
daughter  for  the  welfare  of  the  old  manor  farm.  1  he  plot,  which  is  a  simple  on-:, 
is  developed  with  naturalness  and  humor  .  .  .  her  pictures  of  the  homely 
life  among  the  farms  and  dairies  are  delightful." — The  Outlook,  New  York. 


LONGMANS.  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE.  NEW  YORK 


FIANDER^S  WIDOW 

By  M.   E.   FRANCIS  (Mrs.   FRANCIS   BLUNDELL) 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  DUENNA  OF  A  GENIUS,"  "YEOMAN  FLEETWOOD,'"  ETC 


Crown  8vo,  ornamental  cover,  $1.50 


"  Is  an  altogether  delightful  story.  ...  If  more  of  such  novels  were 
written,  pure,  wholesome  and  bracing,  redolent  of  everything  that  is  pleasant 
to  the  senses,  the  world  would  be  all  the  better.  "—Bristol  Mercury. 

"  An  idyll  of  Dorsetshire  life,  as  natural  and  fresh  and  wholesome  as  the  old 
stone  dairy  in  which  some  of  the  scenes  take  place.  .  .  .  The  book  is  redo- 
lent of  the  charm  of  English  country  life,  pure  and  sweet,  as  it  were,  with  the 
scent  of  the  gorse  and  the  breath  of  the  kine,  of  all  things  that  are  wholesome 
and  homely  and  good. " — Commercial  Advertiser,  New  York. 

"  One  of  the  most  charming  of  recently  published  works  of  fiction.  .  .  . 
The  plot  has  an  appetizing  freshness  about  it,  and  more  than  once  the  unexpected 
happens." — Chicago  Evening  Post. 

"  Here  is  a  story  of  life  in  rural  England  well  worth  reading,  because  of  the 
curious  social  conditions  it  describes,  and  yet  these,  though  well  set  forth,  are 
only  incidental  to  the  main  theme,  which  is  a  delightful  study,  involving  much 
humor  and  no  tragedy,  of  the  belated  coming  of  love  to  an  earnest,  warm- 
hearted woman.  It  is  brightly,  lightly  done,  and  yet  holds  the  attention  and 
contains  sufficient  to  provoke  thought." — Public  Ledger,  Phila. 

"A  truly  delightful  bucolic  comedy.  The  theme  might  almost  be  called 
farcial,  but  the  treatment  is  delicate,  quaint  and  graceful.  Old  Isaac,  the  rustic 
bachelor  who  narrowly  escapes  matrimony  from  a  sense  of  duty,  is  a  Dorset- 
shire original  and  deserves  to  rank  with  the  best  rustics  of  Hardy,  Blackmore, 
and  Philpotts.  The  story  is  prettily  told  and  is  wholesomely  amusing.  Mrs. 
Blundell  is  always  careful  in  her  literary  workmanship  ;  this  tale  will  add  to  the 
popular  appreciation  of  her  work. " — Outlook,  N.  Y. 

"  An  altogether  charming  tale.  .  .  .  There  is  not  a  dull  page  in  it,  and 
there  are  continuous  pages  and  chapters  of  the  brightest  humor." 

— Living  Church,  Milwaukee. 

"A  beautiful  little  story.  One  is  at  a  loss  for  an  epithet  adequate  to  its 
charm,  its  simplicity,  its  humor,  its  truth." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  A  bright  little  pastoral  comedy.  .  .  .  The  widow  is  a  rare  combination 
of  business  sense  and  sentiment,  a  combination  which  insures  her  both  prosper- 
ity and  happiness.  Reversing  the  usual  order  of  love  and  life  she  postpones 
romance  until  she  is  able  to  entertain  her  Prince  Charming  in  truly  royal  style. 
The  sly  efforts  of  one  Isaac  Sharpe  to  rid  himself  of  the  burden  of  matrimony 
are  genuinsly  amusing."— Public  Opinion,  N.  Y. 


LONGMANS,    GREEN,   &   CO.,  91-93   FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


LYCHGATE    HALL 

A  Romance 
By  M.  E.   FRANCIS  (Mrs.   FRANCIS  BLUNDELL) 

AUTHOR   OF    "  FIANDER'S   WIDOW,"    "PASTORALS   OF    DORSET,"    "THE 
MANOR    FARM,"    "  CHRISTIAN    THAL,"    ETC. 


Crown  8vo,  $1.50 


"The  pleasant  merrymakings,  the  romantic  duel-fighting  lovers,  the  intro- 
duction of  highway  robbery  as  a  minor  theme,  and  the  ruined  priory  as  setting 
for  the  whole  -all  these  things  read  with  a  reminiscent  quality  that  is  attractive. 
The  story  is  told  in  a  pleasant,  narrative  style,  which  reads  with  delightful  ease. 
The  descriptions  of  tlie  English  countryside  will  charm  the  reader  with  the 
fresh,  exquisite  beauty  they  represent  so  adequately.  ...  A  book  in  which 
there  is  nothing  to  criucise  and  much  to  praise.      .     .     ." 

— Public  Ledger,  Philadelphia. 

"...  Mrs.  Blundell  is  an  adept  in  holding  her  readers'  interest  to  the 
last  page.  Dorothy's  mystery  remains  unsolved  until  the  last  chapter,  and  at 
no  point  can  one  guess  which  of  her  suitois  will  win  the  pr'ze.  In  the  meantime 
we  are  getting  a  spirited,  historically  accurate  view  of  English  country  life  two 
hundred  years  ago,  and  are  constantly  amused  by  side-lights  on  the  perennial 
human  drama.  The  character  drawing  is  unusually  good  for  a  romance,  and 
the  atmosphere  of  the  times  is  skillfully  sustained.    .     .     ." 

—Record-Herald,  Chicago. 

"...  Remarkable  for  its  charming  descriptions  of  rural  life  and  of 
nature.     .    .     ."  — The  Churchman. 

"Mrs.  Blundell  is  always  entertaining.  Her  plots  are  well  contrived,  she 
has  understanding  of  character  and  deftness  in  exploiting  it  ;  she  has  humor, 
moreover,  and  unfailing  good  taste.  In  '  Lychgate  Hall'  she  has  gone  back 
for  her  material  to  the  days  of  Queen  Anne,  and  has  succeeded  in  reproducing 
much  of  the  spirit  of  the  period,  as  well  as  much  quaintness  of  phraseology. 
She  recounts  a  romance  of  the  countryside,  one  full  of  mystery,  with  a  high-born 
girl  posing  as  a  dairywoman  in  the  heart  of  it.  Many  of  its  situations  are 
dramatic — witness  the  scene  where  the  beautiful  Dorothy  is  stoned  as  a  witch 
by  the  villagers — and  it  ends  with  an  agreeable  distribution  of  rewards  to  the 
deserving."  —New  York  Tribune. 

"A  well-written  book,  with  quite  a  Charlotte  Bronte  flavor  to  it.     .     .     ." 

— Commercial  Advertiser. 

"A  well-sustained  romanc.  of  English  life.    .   .    .    A  delightful  storv.   .    .    ." 

— The  Outlook. 

"A  mysterious  and  beautiful  young  woman,  who  is  passionately  loved  by  a 
mysterious  stranger  and  a  rural  nobleman,  are  the  principals  of  this  stirring 
romance  of  the  '  good  old  times' in  England  .  .  .  one  of  the  comparatively 
few  novels  which  create  a  desire  to  read  it  through  without  stopping,  the  story 
being  so  well  told  that  interest  is  aroused  at  the  very  outset  and  maintained 
until  the  ending."  —Chronicle-Telegraph,  Pittsburg. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


WILD    WHEAT 

A  DORSET  ROMANCE 
By  M.  E.  FRANCIS  (MRS.  FRANCIS  BLUNDELL) 


Crown    8vo.    SI. 50 


"It  has  more  of  passion  aud  sorrow  in  it  than  most  of  her  romances 
but  it  is  all  the  stronger  for  this,  while  there  is  enough  of  the  humorous 
and  cheerful  to  balance  the  whole.  The  love  story  is  sweet  and  whole- 
some,"— The  Outlook. 

"  .  .  .  There  are  many  dramatic  passages  in  the  story,  and  some 
strong  character  drawing  ;  aud  it  is  set  against  a  background  of  English 
country  lite  that  is  drawn  in  with  real  feeling  and  unusual  picturesqueness." 

— Evening  Post,  Chicago. 

"  This  is  an  excellent  story  of  rural  life  in  England  .  .  .  one  lays  the 
book  down  feeling  that  one  has  read  a  pure  love  story  that  is  really  worth 
while.  The  character  drawing  is  admirable,  especially  in  the  two  chief 
figures  of  Peter  and  Prue,  who  really  stand  before  one  as  human  beings." 

— Transcript,  Boston. 


SHAKESPEAEE'S  OHKISTMAS 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 
By  A.  T.   QUILLER-COUCH  ("Q.") 


Crown    8vo.    With    8    Illustrations.    Si. 50 


•'  A  new  volume  by  '  Q.'  is  always  a  delight.  Somehow,  there  is  more 
'heart '  to  his  stories  than  In  those  of  most  writers.  His  pathos  as  well  as 
his  fun  seem  more  sincere,  and  to  have  their  roots  down  deeper  in  human 
nature." — The  Globe,  New  York. 

"We  recommend  those  who  like  entertaining  yams  to  read  'Shake- 
speare's Christmas.'  " — New  York  Tribune. 

" .  .  .  As  good  a  collection  of  stories  as  its  title  promises  ,  .  . 
told  in  the  author's  most  humorous  and  ingratiating  style." 

— New  York  Times. 

"  In  the  title  story  we  have  a  tale  that  is  inimitably  told  and  one  that 
rings  with  merriment.  We  have  here  stories  of  adventure,  a  romance 
that  is  worthy  of  more  space  to  its  tellings  and  a  bit  of  a  love  story.  A 
first-class  collection  of  short  stories  in  this  latest  book  of  '  Q.'  " 

—Sun,  Baltimore. 

LONGMANS,  GKEEN  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOKK 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

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